


Somatoform of a Wytch

by MazzieMay



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Intrigue, Politics, Post-Canon, Post-canon as in spoilers all the way up through Tactics A2, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-08-04 07:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 60,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16342469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MazzieMay/pseuds/MazzieMay
Summary: Many of the guests huddle back away from the broken windows, shiny chips of rainbow in their skin and hair. Stained glass shards make a jagged kaleidoscope against the pale marble floor, crunching and splintering under the feet of the intruders. Black and feather garb, hideous masks, a lot of belts - then the one up front announces, "Pardon the intrusion, we'll be quick; we seek Raithwall's Wytch." And here Balthier had been worried he'd be bored at the Marquis' party.All Penelo was hoping to do was see everyone together for her birthday, geez.





	1. prodrome o1

**Author's Note:**

> **Prodrome**  
>  **noun:** _an early symptom indicating the onset of a disease or illness_

**PRODROME**  
**1/1**

 

More than two years in this armor, and still it sits uncomfortably on Basch’s body.

Adjusting to life as his brother has being easier than expected in some ways and much more difficult in others. Responding to ‘Gabranth’, ‘Noah’, and ‘Judge Magister’ has come almost eerily well to Basch. What is in a name anyway, he supposes. The real rub is in _how_ he responds. Apparently Noah was a silent and subservient Judge, his only response to his title or name was to turn towards the person addressing him. Captain fon Ronsenburg would never have been confused for _chatty_ , but verbally acknowledging someone may as well be a rambling greeting in comparison.

Though Basch hesitates to use the word ‘fortunately’, the majority of people who would be concerned by ‘Noah’s’ slight behavioral changes are all dead. Zargabaath realized immediately what happened though not the circumstances. Larsa had been hesitant to bring the dedicated Judge into the loop, but Zargabaath had wanted to hear little beyond the priority of the young emperor and the Empire.

So long as Basch isn’t looking to return the favor his brother paid him in killing Raminas, the details can be spared.

Basch, of course, has no such intentions. Protecting Larsa will ensure a better Ivalice and, hopefully by extension, a safer Dalmasca. Further still, protect Queen Ashelia. He meant what he’d told Vaan on the archipelago: he now serves the Empire and shan’t be returning to Dalmasca, period. He promised Noah, took on a new charge.

But if it did not also aid the Lady Ashe, would he have bent the knee to Larsa?

Truthfully? Yes. With Vayne and his conspirators slain, there would be no sure way to clear the name of Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg: A since hence previously unknown identical twin brother emerged from the aether in an incredible conspiracy to kill King Raminas and frame a captain that is oh so luckily the other twin, serving in the king’s guard.

It’s beyond laughable, and Basch understood the lingering doubts amongst the group in the beginning. In hindsight, _Balthier_ always seemed to abstain from commenting on Basch’s predicament, for whatever reason. Perhaps he saw no point, being as it was just as ridiculous as it was dire. Basch has his own suspicions, why Balthier would be inclined to at the very least not  _not_ believe such a tale, but has opted to not pursue any evidence. 

That which is buried often should remain so.

In any case, if developing the subtle but extremely uncomfortable slouch Noah had lends itself to peace, Basch is here for it. He ends each and every day with a crick in his neck, but so be it.

He’ll take that crick, though, over a chill down his spine.

Basch stands, trying very hard to not betray his discomfort as he waits to learn why he’s been summoned to the private residence. The helmet is heavy and uncomfortably wet and warm, but at least he is allowed to grimace and frown behind it. Perhaps Noah’s poor posture is a blessing; Basch would certainly feel better ducking into the chest piece with it.

The Dowager Empress’ solar is unsettling, heavy fabrics strung up to block the high sun but not the heat of summer, leaving the domed room in sweating darkness. The velveteen chaises are draped with heavy blankets, other fabric and pelts strewn across the floor, and Basch is unable to tell if they’re rugs or more duvets. Iridescent crystals cast a weak light, starved for sunlight. The slack is barely picked up by haphazardly placed candelabras.

It is a room that is seeping with distress. Why not just use another room, over converting such a space into the exact opposite of its intended purpose, creating a sweltering fire hazard? Why has Gramis’ widow holed up here?

Dowager Empress Saraposa Matka Solidor has removed herself from the public eye, more or less, since her youngest son took the throne. Losing all but Larsa was the Tragedy-That-Would-Not-End, and it is abundantly clear she has not recovered from it. The most disturbing evidence of it sits atop what should be the deck of the solarium: the last portraits painted of her eldest sons and their father.

She sits amongst them now, looking up at Vayne’s painted, proud form as she clutches her Kiltia rosary.

Tall, gold-framed canvases loom over her. It is macabre and haunting, and Basch wishes very much that she would speak.

Finally, just as he swallows an unsettling lump in his throat, she sighs audibly.

“Noah,” she says, forlorn and lost. So long as he's been here, only Saraposa calls the Judges by their given names. “I worry for my Larsa.”

He fights a frown. “How may I ease you, Your Grace?” She is no longer Empress, but until Larsa takes a bride, the title hovers, policy politely ignored.

She sighs, looking at him. Some years younger than her late husband, Saraposa’s face is still drawn and tired. Basch had little experience with her before Vayne’s ambitions withered her, but he can see how grief has aged her further. While it is certainly tragic, Basch’s sympathies are shallow since -

“He is too soft for the throne.”

\- since Vayne took most after her.

Her insane child is the one she mourns the greatest.

“It is a heavy and dreadful task to sit upon it. Such a kind boy will only be swallowed up.” Larsa’s reign is in its infancy, but it is already strong. Larsa has made clear points he is his father’s son, more so than Vayne’s brother. This, somehow, disappoints Saraposa.

Unsure of what exactly she wants from _Noah_ on the matter, Basch attempts to placate her. “He is no child puppet, My Lady. He commands his court,” he assures.

She scoffs at that, twisting the rosary about her long fingers. “The _Senate_ cannot pull his strings, but my poor son is _not_ free of influence.” Basch doesn’t bother trying to keep a passive face, furrowing his brow. He’s witnessed no such thing.

“That charlatan queen,” she frets with a whisper.

He rocks back slightly, a slight _klink_ of his armor plates shifting. Basch is incredibly lucky Saraposa has returned her troubled face towards her husband’s portrait, because he has absolutely no ability to mask his reaction. 

While there has certainly been hesitance from the Archadian Senate and the Dalmascan Court, the tentative peace hasn’t been _unwelcome_  as far as Basch has witnessed. Even after nearly two years, the war is not strictly concluded: Archadia has been withdrawing carefully so as not to collapse the cobbled infrastructure that has been maintaining Dalmasca since Vayne’s toppling of House B’nargin, but no official truce has been drawn up just yet.

At its finest, it is a non-aggression pact. One namely maintained simply by the Emperor and the Queen’s word of law in their respective lands.

No one _wants_ to be at war, though once in it, either side would rather win. This mutual withdrawal has left all sides dissatisfied to varying extents, but not so much to the point that anyone would rather the clash resume. The towering monstrosity of _Bahamut_ casts a literal and figurative shadow unto such thoughts.

“Oh, Noah,” she sighs. “It is _our_ fault.”

“My Lady?” because that’s all he can manage.

She twists her rosary around. “Gramis and I. Even Vayne. We have gone and set a terrible example, I fear. Noah.”  Saraposa frowns at him then, the picture of pity. All Basch feels, however, is a growing unease.

“The powerful are not meant for comrades,” she laments. “Should the wrong person take our ear, it spells disaster. For we are here to protect our people. We _exist_ here to protect our people, and no one else must live to such a standard. Lambs, is what we are, Noah. We are born to suffer, this regency, so that all the others may prosper.”

‘The burden of rule’.

She puts a hand to her forehead, as if to push her hair back, but there is no need. As is tradition, the Dowager Empress’ hair is pulled into a tight braid, looped across the crest of her head. It is a dramatic gesture, a theatre put on for herself and wasted on Basch.

“But _we_ took on confidants. My lord husband was so fond of Dadrian.” Zargabaath. Being a good and loyal soldier would speak to Gramis more than other quality. “And I-I haven’t been the same since Gwalt…” her voice wobbles on Bergan’s given name. “Since Gwalt was felled.” With a shuddering breath, she pushes on. “Vayne, of course, took to Cidolfus so quickly. Look at the example we have set!”

She fixes Basch with a frantic stare and only his thick gloves hide the flinch in his hands. “Larsa thinks he can have _friends_. That most can be trusted. That that hideous sand tart wants _peace_ ,” and on that disgusting reference to Ashelia, her hands squeeze and wring her rosary, the sounds of the scraping beads filling the room.

“She couldn’t seduce my Vayne, so now she grooms my Larsa.”

It takes him a moment, for Basch to find his voice. When he does, it is too even, betraying the strain underneath. “Queen Dalmasca has appeared only fair -”

“ _Appears_!” Saraposa snaps. “Oh, how she _appears_ to be much, doesn’t she? She _appears_ to be Ashelia B’nargin. But I know whom she is. That terrorist that flitted about, dipping in and out the sewers with the rest of the trash insurgence.”

“I have met her myself.” Basch can't argue much beyond that. The Dowager Empress would be far from the first to doubt Ashelia’s claim of being, well, _Ashelia_ , but it could certainly be one of the more dangerous.

She waves him off. “So had Sieb. I read his report. Naught but a maid of passing resemblance, selling her viper oil.” _Ghis_. That’s what he had even outright claimed he wanted, a false princess to create for himself leverage. Basch had no idea he’d gone so far to notify Gramis or Saraposa.  “Likely plucked from that Margrace Disgrace’s brothel network. She acts as if no one’s seen her at the Ambervale. Like anyone doesn’t know what that _means_!”

Basch can’t think of what to do beyond frown. Everything is wrong with that sentiment, but _Noah_ would not correct that. He had wanted so badly to belong, he spent more time as furniture in House Solidor, seeking conformity, not counsel.

“Look upon her,” Saraposa spits. She stands from her chair. The dead men stand taller. “How she _prays_ upon the grieving Marquis. How she is unashamed to be seen with that philandering prince.” Her face begins to twist, as if the venom she is spewing tastes bad in her mouth. “How my little Larsa smiles when he greets her. These powerful men of Ivalice, all _wrapped_ around her _filthy_ hand.”

She stocks down the stairs of the deck quickly, as if unbalanced. She has been sitting for too long. He instinctively holds out his arms to catch her if necessary. “Oh, Noah.” She grabs at his armor, the rosary scraping against the metal of his forearm. “Noah, why couldn’t Gwalt have cut her down?”

Mount Bur-Omisace. A dark day for Ivalice and beyond, when Judge Magister Bergan stuck down the Gran Kiltias after the acquisition of Larsa. Unsure of what he can possibly say, Basch relies on Noah’s refusal to confront authority and offers a meniable, “She is formidable.”

“I should have ordered you to stay. See her done in before retrieving my Larsa.”

Basch cannot stop his soft scoff of realization. “ _You_ sent the Judges to Bur-Omisace?” And because of course Noah would have known that, “You alone?”

Again, she acts as if to push her hair back. “We wanted Larsa to come _home_. It wasn’t safe. But my Vayne, with all his conviction, hesitated when he learned Larsa was lingering about the acolytes and steeples. Even in such terrible times, he thought of the people.” More like he wondered how much support he’d lose attacking the holy mecca. “But once we learned that conniving terrorist had taken him them there, why, we had to do something, didn’t we? _I_ had to.”

Saraposa pulls away from him, wringing her rosary once again. “You brought my Larsa home, and I could not thank you enough, Noah, you know.” Her relieved smile immediately tips over into a regretful frown. “And Gwalt stayed behind. I thought him enough to wash away such a stain.”

Basch has given up trying to keep his emotions from his voice. “You purposefully had him attack sacred ground?” She shoots him a look, chin pointed and high.

“And they should have thanked us! A whore has no business in a church.”

He is speechless, lowering his head so she will not see the challenge in his stance.

“But he could not,” she laments, taken with a great and sudden sadness. “I had hoped he’d cleave her right between her lying eyes. Yet still, she and her band of murdering thieves came away the victors.”

Queen Dalmasca and her pirate einherjar have already become a real time legend. Though one’s mileage may vary on whether it is a lauded tale or an infamous one. Nothing has been proven, of course, but the Lady Ashe likely didn’t return herself to her throne alone.

“He tore through the refugee camps,” Basch can’t help but say. Ashelia had a mighty anger over it, but it had been born of guilt. She and Larsa had felt - and likely still feel - terrible that people seeking asylum and freedom from the war had the violence dropped onto them simply because the two renegade royals had been there.

Saraposa shares none of it. “They can find refuge elsewhere.” He makes a sound in his throat. “One cannot _abstain_ , Noah,” she tells him. _Educating him_. “To refuse to take part in making history is to be lost to it.”

Yes. Vayne took most after his mother.

“And if she should be the real Ashelia B’nargin?”

“Then history, too, would not want her to live. A cenotaph is shameful for a royal, Noah.”

She would know; there wasn’t enough left of Vayne to bury, much less send to the Hells. “It is a terrible thing, to exist alone. A revenant royal is only a blight. If she were truly the latest daughter of Raithwall, she would have clung to her honor and died the first time she claimed to. We will make her honest, Noah. Send her from this plain free of one lie.”

Dread is coming up into his stomach, a dark, frothing swell that threatens to force his lunch back up his throat. This is not idle conjecture. She speaks as if such a thing is already in motion. The back of his neck sweats.

The room has grown harder to breathe in, the stuffy, hot air doing nothing for the chill crawling across his bones. Basch’s stunned silence is either expected or not important. Her rosary is tangled around her fingers from all the twisting and wringing and Saraposa places her hands against his breastplate.

“We must protect Larsa. Noah.”

“What have you done?” The question is involuntary, but Basch needs the answer too badly to try to take it back.

Sorrow creeps back into her face. “What I should have done sooner: protect my family. Noah.” Her nails scratch the metal. “I am not the only one who sees how she sways him. Molds him. It is the only way to protect him from those who see him as an extension of her will.”

Saraposa’s hands suddenly grab at the knot of his cape. Basch holds her forearms quickly, trying not to push her away from him.

“It is either that succubus wraith or my _son_ , Noah!” she cries. “I will stop at _nothing_ to save him. I will bury no more of my babies!” Her sob is dry, nearly a retch. “He just needs a bit longer, is all! He’ll be a grand ruler - _in time_! Yet she runs his clock fast, this murderess! She has taken too much, Noah! She will have no more!”

“Majesty…” And still, Basch is at a loss. There is a mounting threat to Larsa? Some concern for his station, spurred on by his peace talks with Ashelia? Perhaps it is no wonder he hasn’t heard of it; he is, of course, Lord Larsa’s confidant. As the distressed dowager had said, the Solidors made a habit of being open with the identity of their most trusted people.

“So we will protect Larsa. You and I, Noah.”

He loosens his hold of her arms, letting his hands hover as she pulls away from his cape in case her balance slips again. “What would you have me do?”

She sniffles. “Keep him from the crossfire,” she says, and the dread in the pit of his stomach grows. “He will want to help her. He mustn’t. My Larsa is idealistic like his father.” It is a lament, given in a heavy sigh. “He does not yet see what is right is not what is best.”

Deciding not to press his suite, Basch gives something of a warning counsel. “Ousting Ashelia B’nargin will not free Lord Larsa of malleable rumors.”

“Dalmasca is a dead kingdom,” Saraposa states flat, ignoring his meaning. “She can rule it from her grave and leave my boy living.”

**#**

After promising that he will see Larsa safe through this - whatever ‘this’ is - Basch is finally dismissed. The bright afternoon is jarring to walk into after being stranded in the dark; he’d entirely lost track of time when there is none of it to waste.

It is only the gravity of the situation weighing down on him that keeps Basch from breaking into a run down the hall.


	2. incubation o1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Incubation**  
>  **noun:** _the period between the infection of an individual by a pathogen and the manifestation of the illness or disease it causes_

  **INCUBATION**  
**1/3**

 

Halim Ondore clicks his tongue with a ‘tut’.

“That dress was a _gift_ , Ashelia.”

“I am aware.”

He huffs a mild ‘ugh’ and sets his cane to walk down the stairs. Apparently his niece has found herself longing for some sun; the clouds are finally burning back, but the dew their fog left is still coating everything. Instead of waiting for the stone to dry, Her Royal Highness High Lady Majesty Queen Ashelia B’nargin Dalmasca, Grand Duchess to Nabradia, has taken an evening gown from a would-be suitor and laid it out across all the wet to recline.

Where does she get her audacity from, he wonders. Raminas and Lady Magdalene had been gregarious and a bit too picky to please, but both were very fond of gifts. It is one of the reasons Halim thought to introduce them; he felt his wife’s little cousin and the young-at-heart king would be a good match. And they were!

He prefers his position as Marquis just fine, but Halim likes to think he has several talents outside of giving orders from an overstuffed chair, matchmaking being one of them. Before the war, nary a dinner party or garden gala went by without him leaning over to his wife to share whom he expertly deduced would be fitting for another.

The Marquess Zhara would just laugh and roll her eyes, scolding him for gossiping like the maids. But she was not above weighing in her own thoughts.

The war grows more distant every day, yet still they have not returned to such frivolous ways to pass the time. With no constant string of nobles to assess and match, he and Zhara spend the occasional evening searching for a decent suitor for Ashelia.

“This would not be here to lay about on if you had minded your business. Uncle.”

Much to the young queen’s annoyance.

He smiles at her. “And what would you have done then? Without this to keep you dry?”

She lowers her sunglasses so he may see in full her mild glare. “Used another unwanted gift.”

He chuckles. Like her parents, Ashelia is rarely shy to state her thoughts plain. Unlike them, popularity and appeasement matter little to her. Such as she has always been. She took after and favored her brother Kanrard, with his love of swords and no love for tradition. He offered her respite, Halim thinks. There had been too much pressure and not enough expectations for the only daughter of Raminas. Perhaps if more of House B'nargin had been filled with leaders and less followers, things would be...

Well. That was years and years ago. Rest all their souls, Faram.

Stairs descended, Halim strolls over to where she has draped herself across a sun chaise. “You did not come all this way to trouble an old man on his birthday, did you?”

She sits up. “It is not yet your birthday, nor are you yet old.”

“ _Hah_. How generous.”

The open and breezy fabric of her lounging pants shifts loudly as she draws her leg up so that he too may sit on the safety of the dry dress. He looks about it as he settles in. “Perhaps this is the best use,” he comments with a grimace. “It would not have been a good color for you.”

“It is hideous.”

They laugh. A not-so-freely given sound from her. He wonders if such a gesture will ever cease to be so rare. Gone are the days of the precocious princess, chasing Nikulas and Kanrard up the the aviary tower, smiling to herself even as she’s scolded for getting feathers in her hair.

He keeps the memory to himself. This girl is more haunted by her pleasant memories than comforted by them. She seems to be getting better over time, but Halim has noticed that while Ashelia may smile more often, she does not appear more  _happy_.

It is the largest reason he and Zhara are butting in.

“Well, I expect you’ll be wearing something else to the party.” She truly has come for his sixty-third birthday celebration. He shrugs, innocently suggesting, “Perhaps something you can dance in?”

Ashe scowls. “Uncle. You are lucky I will attend at all.” She sets her feet upon the stone, pushing herself up to stand over him. Hands on her hips, and she is every bit the haughty princess he has missed. “I saw your _guest list._ ”

Halim sighs dramatically. “Who showed you?”

“Miram.”

“The most traitorous of my children.”

Ashe scoffs. “As if I wouldn’t have noticed the moment I walked in. Two-thirds of it are some of the most eligible bachelors in Ivalice.”

“Well -“

“ _And_ Valendia!”

Perhaps he and Zhara have considered suitors for Ashelia more often than ‘occasionally’. After she expressed that she would rather they didn’t. Repeatedly.

Hands clasped atop his cane, he shrugs. “Why should we worry, if you know so many available men!”

Ashe bristles but relents. She knows he’s only teasing. “Stop meddling,” she sighs, annoyed. They both know he won’t. She gives him a last empty glare and turns towards her chambers.

A wide stone staircase winds around the private wing, the platforms being patios connected to each room. Mostly servants use this outdoor path to clean each room without having to pass by anyone inside, but the Marquis will take it himself when he means to visit a guest informally.

He wishes Ashe would take a room within the floors for permanent residences, but she always declines with a smile.

Growing warm in the sun, he lifts himself up with a grunt to find a new seat in her room.

“A little romance never hurt anything,”  he tells her as he enters. A bit loudly to let her know where he is. The dressing partition is pulled more closely to the closet, and Halim settles in at her desk. “Your father would press that upon you.”

The sound behind the partition isn’t crude enough to be a snort, but the intent is clear. “He would press that upon _anyone_ ,” she says.

Halim knows immediately what she is referring to. “Now, now. We both know he never laid his touch on Claudette before Loraline passed.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Ashe agrees, though her tone is flat and sardonic. “He thought it much more _romantic_ to sigh over her from across the room while standing beside his _wife_. I have yet to hear tale of any ball he did not spend _moon-eyed_. Something I am glad to not have inherited.”

Halim keeps his disagreement to himself, only giving a shrug she cannot see.

Raminas had been a popular, kind, and hopelessly romantic man. After Queen Loraline was amongst the seventy-some-odd people to die tragically in the Highwaste Catastrophe, Raminas had mourned his first wife deeply - but still wasted no time in marrying the truest object of his affections, the frail and fragile Lady Claudette, daughter of a Countessa.

Much to the embarrassment and charging of his three sons by Loraline. Calling Claudette ‘fragile’ had proved to be an understatement; she had nearly died in her first pregnancy and they had been warned away from another. That is not what happened, and a life was traded for a life when she died giving her birth to Prince Lucca. It pained Halim and Zhara, but Raminas struggled to be as supportive of that son as the others, despite, to Halim at least, Lucca needing that support the most.

Raminas had sworn he’d never love again. Being royalty, many felt he should have been so lucky to love at all, and in public at that. Still, Halim knew his old friend would never be happy with ‘only’ a throne and his children surrounding it.

Zhara’s cousin was young, true - months younger than Raminas’ eldest son, in fact - but Halim could sense immediately she would be just what his sworn brother would want in his life. He introduced them at an end of the year gala, and they were wed in the spring. A whirlwind romance, perhaps a bit rambunctious for people of their station, but they remained madly so, until Magdalene’s death during the first plague.

He remained without a lover for some time after that, but had finally taken a courtesan and planned to marry a fourth time after Ashelia wed Prince Rasler. As everyone knows, that tragically never came to pass.

Rest all their souls, Faram.

Still, whether she realizes it or not, Halim _does_ think Ashe inherited at least part of her father’s romantic notions. Not nearly as blatant as her late father, the Marquis cannot help but notice the slight whimsy in her tone when she recalls her travels, her long glances towards the sky at sunset, or how she lingers before the open windows as the wind picks up.

Halim thinks - or rather, he hopes - it is less the feel of the sky she seeks and more the company…

Of course, any suggestion of the sort will surely see his life over sooner rather than later, and he pretends not to notice.

“Well, you’ve got me all wrong, my dear, in regards to my guests.” He changes the subject back to his party. “I have taken up a new hobby.”

“Oh no.” He laughs at her polite groan. “You have too many hobbies.”

“It just so happens,” and he ignores that jab. “some of the most eligible bachelors are interested in it.”

Ashe’s arms appear above the partition as she pulls something on. “This should be good,” comes muffled from beneath fabric. He tuts.

“Don’t be snippy.”

“I am being _candid_.” Ashe then pulls the partition back, and Halim thinks of all the great things she is burdened with, her beauty must be the most suffered.

She stands without a gown but it makes her no less of a noble lady. Her bell-legged trousers begin a light pink before an hombre takes them into a near-red, and are tucked into tall boots at her knees; a stroke of femininity that lends itself both towards and away from the Warrior Queen of recent songs. Her shoulderless blouse is fitted, crème, laced to bows on her sides, with sleeves cuffed above her elbow.

The wet air in the sky has done something poofy to her hair, so she has raked it back into a clip, where it curls at the nape of her neck.

As his niece stands there, one hand gingerly atop the partition and the other at her waist, hip cocked far too dramatically for her station, in boots with metal lattice tied to them, and not a jewel or bit of cosmetic varnish on her person, Halim finds it a terrible shame that this is not how she can always be. Ashelia likes her skirts and strings of pearls aplenty, but it is only at times like these he thinks he is seeing the most of the person, not the title.

“Well?” she prompts, stepping out towards the vanity where she had left her sunglasses. “What is this hobby?”

“Swallow racing.”

Her hands still, paused in unfolding her sunglasses. She stares at him, practically agape by her standards.

“I take it back,” Ashe finally says slowly, narrowing her eyes. “You _have_ gone old, and I suppose I should be thankful you waited until after my coronation to have your mid-life crisis.”

He laughs, a deep belly sound. She _is_ being candid. Ashelia would never had said that in most company. Temperance is certainly one of her weaker virtues, but she can manage her more impulsive observations… usually.

“I do not need help avoiding my age.” Ashe sets her sunglasses atop her head with pursed lips and arched eyebrows, clearly a face that Doubts. “I _don’t_ ,” he insists. “In any case, I have not been made more aware of my old bones than being on a hoverbike. It simply calls to me, is all, even as a spectator. Watching is fun.”

Shifting her weight to one leg, Ashe casually holds an arm. “‘Fun’, Uncle?”

Halim nods deeply, tipping his head back to give her a knowing look. “You will see at the party!”

She shakes her head but she is smiling, even slightly. “Well?” she asks, gesturing towards the door, the real door, not the outside entrance they came through. “Take me to see what you will be breaking your neck on.”

**###**

Ashe stands with her fingers pressed to her temples, trying to process what is before her.

“...Uncle,” she finally says, exasperated. “You have not only gone old, but _addle-minded_!”

Bhujerba is a large swatch that floats in the sky, but it is still an _island_. Space is finite, and unoccupied real estate is not only rare but incredibly expensive. The architecture of the free state builds up because it’s not reasonable or cost effective to build _out_. More so than jewels or elaborate garments to flaunt wealth, high society in the sky instead have gardens, lawns - just empty margins of land because they _can_.

The Marquis Estate is surrounded by council housing and other homes belonging political and public figures, but that is all at the bottom of the hill. The main residence, where House Ondore has resided for generations now, sits atop the very crest of the forested hill.

The uninhabited forested hill.

Probably the grandest flex in the city-state, over a mile in any direction is occupied by naught but trees - the lone exception being the north side of the grounds. The forest there has been cleared away, down to the plateau of council residences. It gives a nearly unobscured view of the edge of the island, almost nothing but open sky when one is looking straight out from the Marquis’ mansion.

The sharply clipped field has been converted into an (admittedly elegant) course.

Her uncle smiles proudly at it, her reaction seemingly not a bother. “We have run several tests. It’s near perfectly safe.”

“Near!” Ashe throws her hand out, gesturing wide to the now intimidatingly empty sky. “Anyone could go tumbling into the homes below or _further_!”

The weaving racecourse up the incline is alarming enough, but Bhujerba is not a still piece of land. The island breathes and sighs, floating out of sync with its connected islands or even where the earth is not as thick. It bobs and bouys as if in water, albeit very, _very_ slowly and slightly. The subtle ripples can still trip a person, however, if the half an inch rise or fall isn’t kept in mind.

Shifting ground beneath _hoverbikes_ is like calling for a disaster.

Ashe’s knowledge on the machines is limited, but she’s seen Vaan tumble off his enough times to know that the glossair rings will buck away from the ground if one rides too low and will lose balance if one rides too high.

Hoverbikes specifically for racing are called ‘spectra swallows’ and she isn’t sure how much they differ from commercial machines (‘copper’ and ‘steel swallows’; models specifically for treading shallow waters are ‘sea swallows’), but she can assume they go _faster_ and are therefore less apt for such a set up.

“There are easier ways to kill yourself.”

Halim laughs at her then. He leans forward over his cane to see her scrunched up face. “Take care, my dear,” he says with a smile. “I sought the utmost craftsmanship and expert opinion.”

Ashe scoffs, crossing her arms. “Some experts, that they let you do this at all. You should demand your money back.”

He ‘tut’s. “This is all simply a test. Perhaps it should go well, and you will see a track of different terrain within _your_ borders, hm?” She frowns. Why in all Nine Hells would she allow for that? “Think of our times,” Halim says, pivoting to face the edge of the city visible from this observation deck.

“You have won your war, Lady Ashe.” The corners of her mouth twitch down. It was not Her War. She simply made to end what someone else started. “The real fight, however, has only just begun. No swords or guns ever devoured a country like abysmal morale. The people must _want_ to work towards recovery. Most often, the last thing people want is to have their contributions to the war effort constantly lorded over them. They need reprieve, even a distraction.”

“ _Fun_ ,” she nods indignantly, finding his leading dialogue patronizing. She brushes errant hairs back, a small and annoying reminder of what the humidity does to her hair. “I know the importance of reading the room on a national level, Uncle. I just don’t know if legalizing swallow races is the right answer - which, by the way,” and she steps up next to him, giving a pointedly suspicious look, “where did you even learn about all this?” It’s not as if the races were happening here prior to this death trap.

Halim turns to face her fully, giving her a far too-innocent shrug for such a knowing smile. Her brow furrows and lips purse in caution.

“Why,” he says, grin too-wide for Ashe’s liking. “It was the most serendipitous of events!” This should be good. “I was taking Talim shopping down Travica.” He pauses. “You remember Talim, don’t you?”

Ashe bobs her head in a nod. One of the Marquis’ many grandchildren. “Leto’s youngest.”

“Yes! Well, on such a day where I happened to be taking him about the shops, who was I so fortunate to happen upon?” He pauses and she realizes he’s waiting on her. She shrugs; she couldn’t possibly guess. “But two of our good pirates.”

Involuntarily, Ashe leans back somewhat in surprise.

“Penelo, and her littlest associate, Kytes.”

Of course Ashe didn’t have much of a guess as to who her uncle meant at first, but hearing the names of the sweeter members of Vaan’s crew brings a gentle smile to her face.

“A refreshing pair, those two,” he says warmly and Ashe hums in agreement. “Well, that whole lot, really. They could not be bothered any less by title and rank.” Though Vaan and Filo are perhaps _too familiar_ with their high-stationed friends and acquaintances, Penelo and Kytes have always been respectful while also being personable. “We had a lovely chat, her and I, while Kytes and Talim tore around the mechanics boutique.”

Penelo does have that effect on people. Ashe suddenly misses her friends very much. “They were shopping for Vaan’s swallow, then?”

“Correct,” he nods. “It seems underground racing has turned up quite a rage now that every kind of official is too preoccupied with war recovery.”

“‘A rage’, Uncle?” she teases.

Halim gives her a measured look without weight. “I am old, Ashelia, not _dead_.” She chuckles. “I _am_ capable of following certain slang, even from my tower on high.”

She holds her arm, reclining slightly. “This is but more evidence of a mid-life crisis, and I should call for your wife.”

“The Marquess is perhaps more thrilled for this than I.” Ashe scoffs. “I am allowed a swallow so long as it sits two.”

“ _Aunt_ ,” Ashe scolds.

“I saw a business opportunity,” Halim goes on, as if there had never been a digression. “If droves of people are to take to it anyway…”

“...Why not tax it,” she concludes. His eyebrows waggle up and he smirks. She shakes her head, but smiles at his smug expression. “I suppose if the turn out is strong enough, setting a tax upon it would be printing money.”

“Ah! You are thinking like an Ondore.” She scoffs with a small smirk of her own. “Should they be doing it anyway, let us as well embrace their joy and we all give something back to our treasuries. It is not enough to be a good leader, my dear; you must also be well-liked.”

Least her next coup truly come from within.

Still, she mulls it over. “I do not know if my endorsing this would have me more ‘well-liked’. Making the illegal legal would only foster the rumors. Would it not?”

It’s not a wild thought. Her decriers point at anything to call her legitimacy into question. From insisting the Real Ashelia would not use such laconic wit; to the Real Ashelia would not let her hair keep gaining length because she cannot set aside time to frequent salons; to the Real Ashelia would not insist on keeping on with her sword lessons.

The Real Ashelia had blues eyes, not grey.

Sworn declarations from people claiming to have, or perhaps did, know her before the war. Really, all Ashe can do is wonder what kind of person she was before she ever found out what she is truly capable of.

Honestly, she doesn’t think she’s all that different at her core, yet still something can always be said for presentation. For better or worse.

And her eyes have always been grey! Some of her brothers used to tease her for it; her life was going to be harder because all their eyes were clear skies and she got all the storm clouds.

They weren’t wrong.

“It seems like something a resistance scourge would do.” She tries to say it lightly, but that is certainly what would be stamped across a paper herald.

Halim tips his head in acknowledgement, but says, “Anyone can make anything sound negative, should you give them enough time, my dear.” And then, with a somewhat smug look, “And so a reputable man such as myself will instigate, and how very wise you will look to follow my lead. Mm?”

It would not be so simple, of course. With some circles muttering about Ashe’s manipulation of the Marquis.

But still. “Are you a Marquis or a power broker?”

“I am a _pragmatist_ ,” he corrects her easily. “It makes me better at both.”

She decides he is hopeless, shaking her head in bemusement as she looks back out at the course. More than anything else, though, she is impressed. Spend money to make money, sure, but House Ondore is on another level. The fostering of such an aggressive business prowess has produced a powerful family of mogul barons.

It isn’t something Ashe has much of a head for, sadly. She would rather be more hands on than her father had been in terms of ruling, but there are some areas of expertise those hands are forced to delegate. Were she to have more time, Ashe would like to be further educated on several facets, instead of having to simply Trust, but the day only has so many hours and she can only push sleep out for so long.

There’s no point in hashing that out. Ashe shakes the thoughts from her head. “Well,” she breathes. “Penelo will be so honored to know she inspired you.”

“She’s looking forward to it, yes.”

Ashe nods, but then - _Wait_. When she looks back at Halim, suspicion immediately darkens her face.

“Why is she looking forward to this? Why do you look so pleased with yourself?”

“Oh,” and it’s with a theatrical nonchalance that he plays with his cane. “No nefarious reason. I simply thought to send a missive to my serendipitous muse, with an invitation or two to pass along.”

“You did not.” Oh but he _has_ , his infuriating shrug confirming it without a word. “Uncle! _Why_? Vaan and his ability to forget himself at any giving point is bad enough! And don’t think for a moment she’ll go anywhere without him!”  He chuckles, her exasperation apparently very funny, and Ashe fights the urge to stomp her foot. Her hands ball into fists and she stuffs them into her hips as she scowls up at him.

He doesn’t leave her spinning in the wind, however, and answers honestly. “The day she set me on this lucrative path was the day she also asked an inquiry.” Ashe blinks. As in, a favor? “Did you know her birthday is days after mine?”

Ashe opens her mouth but then presses her lips back together. Well. She supposes she _does_ know that, as she knows how a calendar works, but it had not been framed to her so.

Halim goes on, “She wanted to know 'if there was any chance' I could share you on this week.”

Her shoulders dip immediately. In fact, something guilty pulls all of her down; the corners of her lips, her stare, even her head lowers some. It’s not as if Ashe doesn’t _want_ to see them, but it is hard to figure out the time. Truthfully, she very much looks forward to Penelo’s letters, and will even reread them when she is feeling lonely, but answering them gets lost behind more official paperwork. She’s lucky to respond to even one in a month.

Her uncle’s cane comes into her low stare, and Ashe looks up to find him slouching deeply to reach her height. His eyes are kind and his tone gentle. “So I pondered, wouldn’t it be a lucky thing, if there just so happened to be an event taking place, where the guest list is less stuffy and pompous. Where Queen Dalmasca has cleared her schedule to attend it, but has been so adamantly avoiding her suitors that her lack of presence would not be suspicious? So, she could, perhaps, slip away for a day or two, spending it with whomever she pleases? A sweet dancer that worries about her well-being. Just for example,” he adds quickly, straightening his posture. “The rambunctious pirate crew she is a part of would do the trick as well.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out but it wobbles, betraying how touched she is. Ashe will never be convinced she deserves these much greater people caring about her, but she selfishly hopes they never realize they can do better than her.

“Uncle.” She forces the word out, passed the warm lump in her chest. “You would blame me for your building this death trap?”

It’s his turn to laugh. His head is thrown back by it, his shoulders shaking. Eyes shining, he grins at her and waves his finger back and forth. “I meant what I said about taxes. Why settle for two birds with one stone when you can strike many more?”

She tells him he is terrible, but even though there are plenty of misgivings to be had, Ashe is still grateful. Vaan will be glued to the course, surely, and Filo and Tomaj will likely be looking to wheel and deal their way across the guests.

It will be stressful and annoying, and they are so very loud and completely perfect. As they head back towards the main residence where the Marquess is awaiting them for lunch, Ashe simply cannot wait.

Of course, if she’d managed to keep her excitement at bay just a bit longer, she might have thought to ask about who he could have expected Penelo to ‘pass along’ an invitation to.

**###**

Larsa is surprised.

It is not often that anyone sends _him_ a summons, and certainly they aren’t sent by _Basch_. All the more reason he suspects it’s something serious. The parchment only reads _‘we must speak.’_ The young emperor usually is not alone, be it by attendants, senate members, or soldiers, so even as his Judge Magister stands diligently behind him, it’s not as if Larsa can just turn around and ask what is on his mind.

The note is vague, but purposefully so. A code can always be cracked, hints can always be followed. Better to just speak in person and learn the topic then.

“Alda,” Larsa says, adjusting his sleeves. They are tailored quite well, but still his father’s robes feel too big. His clerical vassal perks up.

“My Lord?”

“I am unsure when I’ll be taking dinner. I would like my evening open.” He can hole up in his office then, giving Basch whatever time he needs.

“My Lord.”

Basch remains silent.

Larsa nods once and smiles. “My thanks.” Not that she can see the gesture; her eyes are kept down, as has always been expected of the staff. Larsa would like that changed, if he could.

The quick scratches of Alda’s pen are followed by, “Will you still be taking tea with the Dowager Empress?”

“If Mother will have me,” and Larsa has to fight back a wince. He knows he is Emperor Solidor, that he now commands House Solidor and all of Archadia. Yet still he struggles to pull rank on Mother. He has not yet struck the balance between being her son but not her child any longer.

He cannot afford to be a child of anything anymore.

Alda excuses herself to send someone to the private residence. One can never bank on Mother’s moods these days. Vayne’s terrible charge has ruined her. How Larsa wishes it could have happened any other way.

Wishing isn’t a good use of his time, however. Yet, lately, she has begun to rise from her bed of grief. There is still a haze of despair about her, but Mother is really putting forth an effort to be more involved with him. He's so grateful for her sudden burst of energy, he can't even be too frustrated with her effecting his schedule. In fact, the stack of binders and parchments before him are only as tall as they are because he cannot free himself from her long enough to get more of it done. So, he returns to the act drafts before him. It is a shame ruling involves so much time sensitive paperwork.

He really had been looking forward to attending the Marquis’ birthday party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hoverbikes are called 'swallows' and broken up into classes based on Serge's weapon set from Chrono Cross, because it is another wildly under represented SE game. Also, I think it's criminal that like, 80% of Fran's promo stuff involves hoverbikes but they have virtually no presence in the game. Why couldn't we race them, SE? That would have ruled.  
> See you next update o7


	3. incubation o2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Incubation Period; Latency:**  
>  **noun:** the time from infection to infectiousness. A person may be a carrier of a disease without exhibiting any symptoms.

**INCUBATION**   
**2/3**

 

Balthier thinks on Jahara more than he would like.

That was really the defining moment for him and Fran, wasn’t it? Sure, in theory they could have left at any time, but from the treasure room through their escape from the _Shiva_ , their lives might as well have been on rails for how little recourse they had.

And then their almost staggeringly patch-worked band reached Jaraha. That was their best moment to part ways. He’d gone well beyond his due diligence to see Her Most Royal Majesty had safe passage (and more than once!), was annoyingly sans the _Strahl_ for far too long (Nono had been _frantic_ ), and he’d like to remind her she can kiss her matrimonial keepsake goodbye (but not really).

It made every bit of sense in the world to get all Nine Hells out of dodge.

Yet, he had wanted quite a bit to _stay_ . In fact, Balthier couldn’t think of the last time he wanted to be tethered to something so badly as the Princess’ pilgrimage. It had been too bizarre, too wild, too _thrilling_ to walk away from. In a matter of weeks, he had stormed a palace, staged a prison break, escaped a cruiser class airship from the Archadian fleet after being arrested _again_ , absconded with Ashe right out from beneath the Marquis’ nose (serves him right), gained access to Raithwall’s Tomb and lived to remember it (Balthier rarely raids and tells), escaped _another_ Archadian ship while it was imploding and taking Ghis’ ridiculous hair with it, and - and he’s still leaving things out, isn’t he?

Yet that was supposed to be it? They were then a few days south of Rabanastre, he and Fran could send a moogle to Nono after returning to the royal city and wait for him to arrive with the _Strahl_. The simplest solution is often the correct one, and everything involving Ashelia B’nargin is almost purposefully complicated, so away they would go. That’s what made _sense_.

Despite knowing all of that, Balthier had put off turning in for the night. The village had been good to them, putting them all up despite coming around very uninvited and wielding a terrifying stone. The children shared a tent, Ashe was alone because the good captain had insisted on sleeping outside, and he and Fran had their own as they often do.

If Balthier had gone to bed, though, then it would have been tomorrow. Time to leave. So instead, he had pretended his gun needed cleaning and stayed awake. From their tent, he could see where Miss Deposed Desert Dame had taken a seat beside the consistently chatty Vaan at a bridge.

_He’s tried not to be annoyed by it - it’s annoying he finds it annoying. In their time together, he can barely pull two words from Ashe that aren’t pertaining to whatever the task at hand is, any look she spares him is either a scowl or one of suspicion or both; apparently the princess is more petty than she is mistrusting, for how often she turns her back on him._

_But, for some reason, she’ll take a seat and speak with Vaan._ Vaan _. Who, admittedly, Balthier likes well enough these days, but really, isn’t Balthier easier to like_ more _?_

_“He did not pillage her wedding band,” Fran says behind him, picking at the clasps on her hair clip to undo it. As ever, she sees through him._

_“I didn’t_ pillage _it,” he corrects indignantly. “It was business.” And a favor. Everyone grieves differently, but it’s just morbid, wearing the bands like that. She needn’t do that to herself._

_Viera don’t laugh, but the ones that ventured long enough from the Wood seem to develop a breathy, near inaudible ‘heh’. Fran has used it on him since she met him. “Heh.” She leans forward looking between the tent flaps to see where the two sit. He can hear the fall of her hair. “She does not like your business propositions then.”_

_He looks back at her, eyebrow cocked. “Shall I proposition pleasure instead?”_

_Fran falls back into her bed roll and Balthier returns to his gun, only to realize it’s time to reassemble it. All this time spent, and he hasn’t thought up a single logical reason to propose to Fran that they should stay in this._

_Basch is telling the truth; Balthier worked with the man with his face. He can’t tell anyone that. In fact, he’s lucky Ghis seemed to have found it more amusing to point his sword at him rather than greet him. The less Balthier is thrust before Judge Magisters, the better._

_While Penelo_ had _been kidnapped because of Balthier, that seems to have worked itself out without further involvement. In fact, that will be less likely to happen when he and Fran go. He has no stake in Dalmasca, or Vaan’s revenge story._

_Nor Ashe’s, for that matter._

_He looks out at them again. Vaan is reclined so far back he’s nearly prone, his legs dangling off the side of the bridge, arms waving around as he talks towards the sky. Ashe has her legs to her side, hands in her lap, ever a lady after everything. She’s listening to whatever Vaan is going on about, an indiscernible smile on her face. He tries not to, but Balthier can feel himself frowning._

_“She will fail to cross the jungle.”_

_Whether she saved him from his thoughts on purpose or not, Balthier gratefully takes Fran’s distraction._

_“You think so, dearest?” he asks, locking another bit into place. “She seems ever so slightly determined.”_

_Fran remains on her back, crossing one long leg over the other. “Determined does not equate success.” Too true. “They cannot hope to make passage through the Fortress as ghosts, so their path is forced to Golmore.”_

_Fair enough. Nalbina would be a hard sell even before the loss of_ Shiva _; now that the Captain and Princess are known concerns it’d practically be a guaranteed failure._

_Still seated, Balthier swivels to face her. “It’s a literal jungle, Fran, but not entirely un-transversable. Scores of people make their way to Bur-Omisace any given season.” Be it traders or hunters, and that was before droves of people began fleeing the war._

_“They are led,” is her simple response. “Taken up the rivers or taken about the south. To not know where to step is to be eaten by teeth you did not see.”_

_Balthier grimaces, teasing her. “Ever a vocal painter, dearest.” Firearm perfectly pieced and locked back together, he rests his forearm against his drawn knee. He taps his finger against, but not on, the trigger. “Thinking of drawing them up a map, then?”_

_“She cannot afford me.”_

_“Well, you are priceless.”_

_He can see her nose twitch. Her eyelids lower as Fran looks down her body at him. “Perhaps you are cheap.” He doesn’t have to pretend to be aghast._

_“Take it back.”_

_Fran returns her stare to the steepled ceiling of the tent. “We cannot make for Rabanastre for some days.”_

_He raises an eyebrow. “More days than it will take us to get there?” She folds her hands across her stomach. “Why do you say that?”_

_“Returning to Rabanastre would be returning to custody.”_

_Balthier tips his head at that. The fleet will expect them to make for civilization. Maybe he was being optimistic, estimating that their trek back would give them enough breathing room. There are rules in place, should he and Fran not return to the_ Strahl _in a timely manner; Nono knows where all the rendezvous points are, and where to wait to hear back from his captain._

_He moves over to his own bed roll, laying his gun down carefully before following suit. On his side, head against his propped hand, he asks, “You want to kill time playing tour guide?” He’s only half-joking._

_Fran doesn’t say anything right away, but her slow exhale through her nose combined with her twitching ears tells him plenty._

_“It has been long, since I was this close to the Village.”_

_It is a soft, toneless admission. A statement that lacks even a matter-of-fact delivery. Without pretense._

_To avoid the unspoken rule of never lying to each other, both willfully chose not to ask questions they think the other would not be truthful in answering. So instead of all the things that immediately come to mind (like how she said ‘village’ and not ‘home’), Balthier gently asks, “Would you want to be closer?”_

_Something passes over her face, but it is quick and vague and he only sees it from the side._

_“...’want’ is not what I feel,” and it is a bewildered sigh. She turns her head to look at him. “But I would see us venture nearer the Village again, before I feel I do not want to more.”_  

And that was that. What a good thing they did; Mjrn was rescued, and of course, everything that happened after. None of any of that would have happened if it weren’t for Fran. It’s all to her he got be the leading man - wouldn’t have been enough for a good story otherwise.

So much transpired and changed the world for Balthier, for all of them, and one could shudder to think how unspeakably inferior their lives would be if Fran hadn’t taken to the rare whim. And that’s assuming Ashe and the others survived whatever it was they would had to have done without Fran and him.

(Of course they would have.)

As much as Balthier likes to keep most of the past a very distant past, that seemingly innocuous choice turned out to be perhaps one of the most defining crossroads of their lives. So large, ne’er a glance back can be made without it against the horizon. For all the good that came from it, it nearly _looms_ in his memories. Perhaps the further time flies away, it won’t feel like such a close call.

One can hope.

In the meantime, Balthier glares at a future choice: the Marquis’ invitation.

He flicks his eyes up at the short _crack_ of sparks flying as Fran sets the cutter against the pipe. The fire and storm magicites are compressed too tightly, passing an electrical current through the stones up the rod, creating a plasma-like energy that’s _just_ hot enough to cut through the metal piping but the heat has a short radius, meaning the precious copper underneath is unscorched.

The whine of separating metal ends, a perfect oval chunk of piping landing heavily into the grass.

Balthier whistles. “Perfect execution as always, dearest.” Fran removes her goggles. “Intact wrapping calls for a renegotiation of our fee, doesn’t it.”

“Heh.”

Fran has a particular way she likes to copper harvest, so Balthier keeps out of her way. Shoulder against a tree, he returns to giving the small card a hard look. Honestly, if it just suddenly burst into flames, that would be best. Problem solved, and he couldn’t be blamed for it, unlike if he dropped it out the airlock.

And _why_ exactly can’t he just bin his invitation? Simple:

It isn’t his.

Halim Ondore invited _Fran_ to his rich kicks race soiree. Balthier can’t begin to imagine what the Marquis is playing at with that tactic and he hates it. Balthier’s never had the displeasure of dealing with a greater chess master than Ondore, and that’s more than reason enough to have next to nothing to do with the conniving strategist.

Ondore hasn’t done anything _too_ unfavorable to he and Fran - but that’s _yet_. Even when he’s putting himself last, the Marquis is putting himself first. Case in point, when he delivered Balthier and all to Ghis to maintain his cover as well as get them to Ashe. That’s more of a razor’s edge than Balthier is comfortable walking. He and Fran prefer their stakes quite a bit lower than that, thank you very much.

“I can attend with Nono.”

Balthier scowls at her swaying ponytail as Fran jerks the cables back and forth. “You could attend not at all,” he gripes. She is teasing him; _of course_ he would be her plus one. “He can’t possibly expect us to see this as some innocent tête-à-tête. Like we’ll come around for a  _chat_.”

Taking semi-regular contracts isn’t unheard of for sky pirates, in fact it’s nearly unavoidable that you’ll eventually have a dedicated commissioner. It’s a distrustful line of work, but commissioners like getting paid as much as anyone else and will keep in mind the names of those who get things done. Fran and Balthier still lean more heavily on treasure hunting over heists in order to maintain a stronger degree of anonymity and by extension lower debts, but that rarely pays as well as contracted work.

Hence their striping of copper from this conduction piping.

“Think of the purses to part away with,” she says, but Fran, of course, would not be robbing anyone at Ondore’s highly suspect birthday party. Well. That would largely depend on her mood and Balthier wouldn’t insult Fran by trying to predict that.

Balthier grimaces, crossing his arms, leaning more heavily against the tree. “He wants something.” He won’t take regular contracts from nobles. It’s bad for business, sleeping at night, and looking at himself in the mirror.

“Everyone wants something.”

“Fran.” She glances over her shoulder at his scold, the faintest smirk at the corner of dark lips. He raises his eyebrows and narrows his eyes. “You’re sour today, dearest.”

Fran shifts, moving from one knee to both. Head tipped forward to send him a measured look, “As you are bitter,” and then she is facing the gaping piping again. She stuffs her hands back into the artificial guts, plastic casing and copper cabling being dragged out in her long hands. Expensive entrails. “The Marquis is far from brazen. Whatever he seeks from me, or us,” she adds before he can, “it will be sought far from the eyes and ears of those who care.”

As usual, Fran keeps things at their brass tacks. Ondore is far from foolish, she’s right. Instead of arguing that particular point, Balthier just shifts his weight slightly and tips his head against the bark.

Of course, it doesn’t really have anything to do with the Marquis inviting them to some get together as actual guests or not. What’s irritating him about the whole thing is the little hand written notes along top and bottom.

 _Please come!_ and _We’re all going to be there! Even Ashe! It’s for my birthday!_

Penelo’s adorable round penmanship is unmistakable, with its baubled dots and curly dropped lines. Fran and he make a point of being hard to get a hold of. It’s one of the reasons Ba’gamman always had to go to elaborate lengths get anywhere near Balthier.

Now, though, a very powerful and dangerous person has found someone with a direct line to them. Balthier isn’t too worried about the Marquis in that regard, per se, but it does mean he’s going to have to talk her, Vaan, and Vaan’s crew about not advertising their knowledge of how to reach the _Strahl_. Ondore made a very safe bet, but assuming Penelo didn’t just outright admit she could get the invitation to them, showing up would confirm the connection.

That has the potential to be a much bigger problem for her and Vaan.

That is, after all, what dragged her into the story to begin with, isn’t it?

Of course, the both of them are much better at taking care of themselves now (sort of; Balthier definitely still worries about them), but just like when someone who comes into more money shouldn’t necessarily increase their cost of living, becoming more formidable shouldn’t mean opening up yourself to more danger.

“You know why we shouldn’t go,” is all he says.

Penelo will be disappointed, obviously, and fail at trying to hide it, Vaan will read them a riot act until Fran gets him by the neck, and Ashe will... She'll - Balthier’s lips press together, gaze drifting around the small power post, unsuccessfully trying to distract himself from the rest of the thought.

It doesn’t matter what Ashe will do next he sees her, because _he never sees her_.

It’s not as if he doesn’t want to - he does. He’s been meaning to. Balthier sighs, pivoting so his back is against the tree and he is facing the woods. He just…

He just borderline _blew it_ with her the last they saw each other. He didn’t even know that was something he could _do_ with a woman. Balthier still can’t believe he left it like that. A smirk and a nod, and into the _Strahl_ he went. Where he smacked his desk later when it dawned on him how utterly tactless that parting had been.

The two of them _really_ needed to finish their conversation from the deck, but there hadn’t (ironically) been time until the very end when Balthier just up and left. ‘Conversation’. It’d became a borderline argument before Ashe correctly walked away from him.

Then, she had looked to him at the end. A rare unaware moment for him, he completely misread her expression. Balthier took her questioning look to be asking _‘should we go now?’_ when Ashe had certainly been intending _‘should we speak now?’_

Ugh. Poor showing for the Leading Man. He shifts uncomfortably at the memory. By all rights, neither of them have to speak to one another again. The Queen likely should be distancing herself further from the rumors of her pirate confidants; Balthier’s lack of love for crown and country shouldn’t be any different in regards to _her_ crown and country. And yet still he knows neither of them would be satisfied with that.

Shameful end to their story.

And so, once again, Balthier has dropped himself into an embarrassing impasse. Where reason insists well enough be left alone, the simplest solution is to just let it lie, and he so very badly doesn’t want to do that. Not to mention letting down Penelo and Vaan. And just as before -

“We should not be many places,” Fran states plain. “Why now have concern?”

\- Fran gives him guise to pursue the complicated.

Balthier watches her. Veira tend, as a people, to cut the fat off their point, and the longer one is alive, they become less and less inclined towards more trivial nuance. But Balthier thinks that despite that blithe combination, there is something else to that wry simplicity that is utterly unique to Fran. Whereas Balthier, like most anyone, needs to justify things to themselves, having a clear line of thinking to feel correct in their choices, Fran doesn’t bother with anything so close to being trite.

Fran just _is_ , Fran just _does_.

How Balthier both envies and loves her for it.

“You are something else,” he tells her after a moment of wonder.

Fran sits back on her haunches. “I am _good_ ,” she says. The copper cables sit neat in the grass, cut clean and far enough down that none of the copper is exposed from beneath the wrapping. The excess snippets make a small pile, something to be bagged and have Nono strip later to sell or metal down. There she goes, maximizing their overhead.

“That you are,” he grins.

She is quite proud of herself. But then she picks up the cutter, intending to take from another section of the piping.

Balthier pushes off the tree, going to collect their spoils as well as stop her. “Fran,” he cautions lightly. “Leave them something to work with. We’re pirates, not degenerates.”

“ _I_ am a pirate,” she says, setting the cutter to the pipe. “ _You_ are a gentleman thief with an airship.”

Crouched beside her, he flicks a copper snippet her way.

“How very dare you.”

**###**

Penelo has one hand on her hip, snapping her fingers with the other.

“Guys! I’m serious!”

She has their attention but just barely. The crew meetings always seem to go like this. Kytes tries to be attentive, but Filo is always finding some way to harass him (today, she keeps ‘accidentally’ kicking the back of his seat), Tomaj half-listens as he pours over their account book, and Vaan usually isn’t awake. When he _is_ , though, things are worse, because he tries to break up Filo and Kyes, and just winds up in a screaming match with her.

Penelo sighs loudly, tugging on her braids in frustration. “We have to, have to, _have to_ be on our best behavior here! We’re super lucky that the Marquis invited us to something like this, okay?”

Kytes grunts as Filo forces his seat forward again. Vaan reaches over to thwack her with a, “Quit it already.” She swats back at him then flops backwards into her own chair, loudly, crossing her arms.

“It’s for one night,” Penelo pleads. “And then we’re going on a really neat Hunt with Ashe!”

The skrtiching of Tomaj’s pen is constant. “The neat part is what Ondore is paying.”

“The hunt itself sounds awesome,” Vaan grins. “It’s been forever since we got some real action!”

Penelo wrinkles her nose. “You almost died in the last tomb we found.”

“That was from traps,”  Vaan waves her off. “That’s nothin’.”

Tomaj grunts. “That ‘nothing’ cost a big ‘something’.”

“This is going to be a _real_ adventure,” Vaan talks over Tomaj, glaring at him. He then smiles big at Penelo again. Her shoulders dip and she smiles back. She can’t do anything when he looks at her like that, gosh. “And Ashe’ll be there!”

Penelo nods. “And Ashe! And we _all_ want that, right?”

For varying reasons. Kytes flushes, expression shy and excited. His crush on the Queen is as adorable as it is hopeless, and Penelo wishes Filo and Vaan wouldn’t give him such a hard time about it. Tomaj is always a fan of running across Ashe for financial inquiries, and Penelo wishes he didn’t treat her like a private bank. Filo loves that their’s is a warrior queen, always asking Ashe to either teach her ‘mean’ spells or ‘brutal’ moves or asks about the war, and Penelo wishes she’d quit picking at that wound.

Vaan is always the most enthusiastic one, when it comes to seeing Ashe. Sometimes, it’s a little hard not to be just a teensy bit jealous, but Penelo knows it’s not Like That between them. He and Ashe shared something during the war that Penelo can’t understand, that she wasn’t a part of. That kind of anger is an intimate thing; how they hated the same, grieved the same... It forged their bond before anyone else’s. He and Ashe are more than friends, but not quite family, but definitely not romantic.

Some days, they way he talks about her comes across more as a Madonna Complex, and that’s probably the easiest thing for Penelo to understand. Ashe is their queen on top of everything else, and after all the holy heck they went through together, even Penelo has felt more devout than devoted to her at times. They already went to war for her.

They would probably do anything Ashe asked.

But she is also still their _friend_ , and Penelo worries about her and misses her as much as any of her friends, and she is just so freaking _excited_ that the Marquis was nice enough to help Ashe make time for them. Well. Ashe might not know it yet, that they’re going to see each other, but it is going to by the greatest!

Just a fun, easy party, and they’re off for her birthday trip!

“Who cares about the Marquis’ dumb dinner?”

So long as everyone behaves. Penelo quirks her mouth down and looks at Filo. “Why do we have to hang with a bunch of stiffs who don’t know squat about swallow racing? Or literally anything interesting?” Filo grumps. She plants her foot on the back of Kyte’s seat again, pushing herself back into a recline. “Why don’t we skip the loser lounge and just get to the Hunt after?”

Vaan reaches over again, slapping her at her shin to force her leg down. Kytes chair rocks back so fast he nearly falls out.

Kytes yells at Filo, who yells back. Vaan yells at them both.

“Guys, guys!” Penelo tries, hands uselessly held out, waving them back and forth to try to defuse the situation. Tomaj is no help, just hunching further over his papers. With a deep breath, she drowns them all out.

“ _Quiet down_!!”

It always goes like this. Filo gives first, huffing and crossing her arms again, slouching in her chair. Kytes chuffs at her before facing forward, red faced and hiding his hands in his wide sleeves. Vaan, who had stood up to yell down at both of them, remains standing, prepared to thump either on the head as needed.

Penelo hates yelling, and glares at the three of them. Lips thin, she breathes deeply through her nose.

“That was the condition.”

Everyone looks over at Tomaj. He’s tapping the tail of his pen on the corner of a page. “The Marquis isn’t going to commission the Hunt unless at least one of us races.”

That’s true. When the Marquis wrote to Penelo, he opened his letter with this wonderful plan for all of them and Ashe. Penelo had immediately fallen in love with the idea of getting to spend a few days with the Queen on an outing everyone would enjoy, and was so happy about her birthday request being honored - which was likely Halim Ondore’s intent. It was only at the bottom, where he closed out the letter with the conditions for honoring such things that Penelo realized she’s being somewhat played.

He deliberately designed something that would send her hopes to a lofty up, only to hold them ransom. To barter both their time. To be honest, an evening with fancy food and drink that actually allows Vaan to run a little wild doesn’t sound like the worst…

The part that leaves her slightly leery is that on top of someone from the crew racing, it’s important she somehow gets Fran and Balthier to the event. Penelo doesn’t know what’s up with _that_ , and is exercising some wilful ignorance. It’s definitely strange. So her getting a little cutesy with her writing and telling them to come for her birthday is only a little itty bitty guilt trip-y.

But Fran and Balthier won’t go if it’s _really_ a bad idea. So if they come, it’ll be fine.

Right?

“Why?” Kytes asks, pulling Penelo back. He shifts in his chair. “I mean, I don’t mind,” he adds once all eyes are on him. “It’s just kind of… You know?”

Filo rocks forward in her seat, feet flat and elbows on her knees. “The dweeb is right.”

“Hey…!”

They ignore Kytes protest. Tomaj shrugs, still tapping his pen. “Why do rich people do anything?” he asks rhetorically. “They can and they’re bored.”

Filo scowls and tchs. “What a dumb rule. We shouldn’t be dancing for the snobs.”

“Penelo _is_ a dancer,” Kytes insists.

“I might perform,” she admits.

“We’re _not_ gonna dance.” Vaan places one hand on the back of Filo’s chair, the other on Tomaj’s shoulder. He’s hunched over the three of them, with that malicious glee in his eyes. The same kind he’d get when he’d flitch purses from the Arcadian soldiers, or whenever Rikken wants to challenge him to something.

“We’re gonna show ‘em how it’s done.” He pats Tomaj’s shoulder. “And a little friendly over-under on how many of those _snobs_ think they can take us.”

Penelo frowns, but the other three light up. Nothing like a chance to drag a rich person for Filo, and Tomaj can spin anything to need a bookie. Kytes has clearly warmed up to the idea, but doesn’t want to show it.

Filo rubs her hands together enthusiastically. “They won’t know what hit them!”

“Guys…” Penelo warns. But it’s too late. The eldest and the two youngest are zipping off, excited to swindle and deal with the Marquis’ guests.

Vaan chuckles, and Penelo lightly smacks his arm. Hands on her hips,  “We’re _guests_ , remember?’”

“Oh, we are!” Vaan agrees. “But if the Marquis wants to deal with pirates, then he’s gonna deal with _pirates_.”

She isn’t impressed. “For my birthday?”

Vaan opens his mouth, but wisely decides against his knee jerk reaction. After a moment, he rubs at the back of his neck. “We definitely won’t ruin your birthday,” he tells her. It’ a soft, sincere tone. She purses her lips to keep from telling him it’s okay. “I just don’t want him thinking he can parlay your special day, you know?”

Penelo steps forward, taking his hands in hers. “I really want us all together,” she says earnestly. “I don’t mind if he wants you to race, or for me to dance, or whatever.” The last bit is added lamely, because maybe she kind of, sort of, a little bit hasn’t told Vaan about the part with Fran and Balthier being at the party, instead of only the Hunt? “I just want to see everyone. That’s my wish.”

He squeezes her hands. His smile is all teeth and gentle. That smile he has when he’ll suddenly stop her just to say ‘I love you.’ It does silly things to her stomach, and even though Vaan can be loud, unaware, brash, and annoying, he’s also perfect to her.

“Until we find a djinn, I’ll just have to grant all your wishes, babe.” He makes her feel all pink inside, and yeah okay, she’s not mad about it anymore. He pulls her in close by her hands. They’re nearly flush as he tells her, “This was a great idea, and we’re gonna have a _blast_.”

They kiss then, and if Penelo is being honest with herself, despite how rowdy her crew can be, she really can’t think of anything that could go seriously wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update! Sorry for the long pause between updates; I was out of town for an entire two weeks for Real Life writing things so fanfiction took a back seat. I wrote most of this during my stupid long layover in PHX orz.  
> I'm always happy that Fran and Balthier decided to kick it with Ashe's squad, but there's a few pockets during the story where it really doesn't... make sense? that they stayed? I mostly explain that away with Fran deciding to take a peek at Eyrut (like this flashback), and Balthier becoming increasingly worried about Cid and Ashe crossing paths (this because after the Kiltias' murder, that would be another good place for he and Fran to duck out, as well Reddas taking the team to Balfonhiem). That's not really a complaint, though. Just something I wish had been more explored in the main game.  
> See you next chapter! o7


	4. incubation o3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Incubation Period; Latency:_  
>  **verb:** in latency the virus is replicating

  **INCUBATION**  
**3/3**

Vaan doesn’t bother waiting for the gangplank to connect.

He takes a running leap out of the open airlock, launching himself onto the departure dock. He pops back up and immediately swoops in to hug Ashe. There is a pause before she returns the gesture with a much more mellow hold, but she laughs anyway. It’s probably a weird look, some guy just hugging Queen Dalmasca, but whatever.

He hasn’t seen his friend in months and everyone else can go pound sand. There’s plenty of it in Dalmasca.

There’s a heavy _thunk_ as the plank docks, followed by the slow _hiss_ of releasing pressure as his ship - the _Beoulve_ \- settles into rest. Kytes is in the pilot seat, having been learning how to port in aerodomes. Vaan makes a small note that he was slow with the glossair rings, but otherwise the kid is coming along alright.

He gives her one final squeeze, as Ashe gives him a ‘and we’re done’ pat on his back. He knows that’s what it is because she’s had to tell him on more than one occasion that that’s what it is. He’s got it now, though.

“Vaan,” she greets with a small smile and a pleased sigh.

“Hi.”

Still grinning, he steps back as the crew begins to file out. Not quite like his full run, Penelo also descends quickly, arms out for her own hug.

“I wasn’t sure if you knew we were coming,” she smiles.

“Uncle was forced to confess,” Ashe says as she releases Penelo. “I was dangerously close to leaving. He showed his hand to convince me otherwise.”

Their queen smiles and nods to the remaining three as they join them. Tomaj and Kytes give varyingly deep bows but Filo opts for an obvious once over followed by an upward nod of acknowledgement. “Queen,” is all she says.

“ _Filo_ ,” Penelo scolds. Vaan thumps her shoulder. “Be respectful.”

Filo just swings back at Vaan. “Leave that lacy stuff to the _Archadians_ ,” she chuffs. “She’s _my_ queen, isn't she? And I’ll talk about her however _I_ want.” With that, she takes off. Penelo apologizes.

Ashe doesn’t seem to mind at all. “It is nice to hear someone refer to me as Their Queen.”

They can all agree on that, with Kytes excitedly calling Ashe ‘queen’ at the beginning and end of each sentence. Vaan watches Filo until she disappears around the corner and out of the departure zone. He thinks she is mostly just embarrassed because she doesn’t know what to do with everything she’s feeling.

Filo, like many Dalmascans, isn’t satisfied with the truce Ashe and Larsa called. Vaan came to terms with his anger and Ashe chose to let hers go for the greater good, but they are in the quieter majority. There are many Dalmascans who would rather still be at war until they won.

Because fighting is better than ‘allowing’ Archadia to ‘get away’ with everything.

Which, spade-a-spade, yeah: they kind of _are_ getting away with everything. Vayne, most of his crazy Judge Magister pals, and the even crazier Cid might all be super dead, but that seems like real small comeuppance for what they did to Dalmasca - and, like, _wiping Nabradia off the map_.

Vayne’s regime got up to a lot of terrible crap and no one’s paying for it. There is plenty to be sore over, and Vaan feels some of it despite how far he’s come.

He has no idea how Ashe tolerates it. He also doesn’t know what else Ashe can _do_. They’ve never talked about it, but just from where he’s standing, Vaan can see that her and Larsa are pretty stuck. If Ashe can’t keep the peace, Rozzaria is going to get all _Chivalrous_ again and that’d be some real bad news.

Raithwall stuck his kingdom smack in the center of Ivalice to have access to everyone. But now it’s more like Dalmasca’s surrounded.

Yeah. Ashe can definitely use a vacation.

 _But_ this is still Penelo’s special party!

As the crew moves towards the exit, flanked on either side by the Marquis’ guards, Vaan falls into step beside his queen. Ashe is plenty scary, but even in Bhujerba she can’t walk without a retinue.

“Sorry again,” he says quietly. The others are excitedly discussing the party, but he doesn’t want them to think he’s dragging Filo.

Ashe maintains admonishment. “I have been called a great deal worse than my _title_ , Vaan.” She says so lightly but she’s right; Vaan’s gotten a black eye or two over the years from getting into it with people that try to insult her within his earshot. “I know what frustrates her. It frustrates me as well.”

Right enough. Vaan at least had _some_ peace or another over Vayne’s Campaign, but Ashe had to just decide to leave it. It had reached a point where her crusade was going to be less about Dalmasca and more about _her_. She had to physically force herself to remain fighting for _what’s_ right instead of _being_ right.

There is incredible strength in holding on, but something even more powerful in letting go - especially because she really, really didn’t want to.

Vaan couldn’t respect her more for it.

“Still,” he says, rotating one shoulder. “She could put a little more thought into it before speaking.”

Ashe shoots him a flat glare. “Couldn’t you all.”

Vaan grins broadly.

“You can’t filter _gold,_  Ashe.”

“What of mud?”

"Hey!” But he’s grinning and she laughs at him.

It still blows Vaan away how friggin’ funny Ashe is. That she has a _personality_. Like, what - was she eating it for breakfast everyday for the three months they traveled together? Of course he knows that they met Ashe at her lowest point; when she was desperate and rapidly approaching her wits’ end. Everyone she had ever known and loved were dead, her kingdom was following suit, and those three months were her darkest hour. Even Vaan can see that’s not a fair representation of someone.

Still, though. All that time together, and he barely caught a glimpse of This Ashe. She never laughed, rarely smiled. The closest she got to joking was less biting sarcasm. He and Penelo assumed that’s just who Ashe was; an admittedly more stressed out version of herself, but the picture had been painted clear enough.

Turns out?

No.

Smiling is no longer a reason to mark the calendar, and while laughter is still on the rare side, at least it’s _here_ now. He and Penelo about fell out of their chairs the first time they heard it.

All he wants for her is for this gross politics crap to be done. So she can have the peace of mind to laugh at whatever she wants, whenever she wants.

He volunteers to keep playing the stooge if it’ll make her happy.

And she keeps buying him swallows.

Tomaj is the first out the front doors of the aerodome.

Filo is unsurprisingly long gone by the time they meander out into the street. Vaan isn’t too worried about it. She wanders off on her own pretty often, and she knows where to go tonight since the crew agreed they’d rather sleep at an inn over taking up even a more meager guest suite.

Well. More like Tomaj was super out voted.

Tomaj is wily and cunning, even managing to sweet talk his way into keeping his home and job during the Occupation. A living relic from Vaan’s old life, Tomaj was always sympathetic to those uprooted but he was never ‘one of them’. He wasn’t spending the nights in bathtubs in Lowtown, rotating through abandoned apartments to squat in. He wasn’t taking turns fasting meals so what little food they could pull together could go to the littler kids.

He often looks like the brains of the operation, and no doubt the guy crunches numbers like nobody’s business and can reshape a plan in a blink. Yet, he’s never pushed to be leader, and never lets anyone thinks it’s him over Vaan.

Vaan knows he can be brash and impulsive, and is notorious for not thinking things through. But he’s also ferociously loyal and protective; he didn’t become the defacto leader of Lowtown’s war orphans by mistake. It’s because he fought, starved and stole to provide for them. He’s captain of this crew now for the same ideology.

So, yeah, Tomaj has taken point here (well, the guards are herding them but whatever) but it’s clear he’s doing it so Vaan can chat up his friend. The Queen. He’s said it before, that there are days when Tomaj can’t believe the kid Reks was always apologizing for is on a first name basis with Queen Dalmasca, Emperor Solidor, and one of the may princes of Rozarria.

But those days are coming fewer and farther between. Instead of growing boastful and crowing over it, that compliment always makes Vaan duck his head, suddenly bashful.

Penelo has taken up Ashe’s other side and Vaan gets ahead of them to catch up with Tomaj and Kytes. Judging from his face, the elder is up to something.

“So Kytes,” Tomaj drawls out, as their youngest member hops down the stairs ahead of them all. Sleeves flopping, Kytes turns to look up at Tomaj. “Are you going to tell her how nice she looks?”

Little guy goes about as red as a rogue tomato, cheeks puffing out as he holds a sudden gasp, and Vaan sucks in his breath to keep from laughing. Man, they're monsters. It’s funny any day of the week, but Vaan is sure Tomaj is only doing this because they’re in front of Ashe. Tomaj thinks the Queen gets _some_ enjoyment from someone getting all stutterclucked and tongue tied around her.

Tomaj is basing the assumption on his experience with women. Basing his own assumptions on his experiences with _Ashe_ , Vaan could make an argument for or against.

“I was gonna...at the party,” Kytes mumbles, twisting the ends of his sleeves around.

“You don’t think she looks nice now?”

“Of course I do!” Kytes sputters and Vaan stands on the step behind Tomaj.

“You do what?”

Kytes blanches and Tomaj _snrks_ at Vaan’s question. His grin is too big, and as Penelo and Ashe catch up, his girl shifts her glare between both men; she knows _exactly_ what Tomaj has done. Ashe has her head at a tilt, patiently smiling at Kytes, waiting to hear ‘what he does’; she does _not_ know what Tomaj has done:

Set the little guy up.

“You’re both the worst,” Penelo scolds. Kytes twists his sleeves, Vaan and Tomaj sniggering.

Going off Penelo’s reaction, Ashe shifts her weight to one leg, holding an arm, standing a step above Penelo. “I hope you two aren’t discouraging him from anything,” she warns them, fixing a particularly strict look on Vaan. It’s so easy to blame him!

“Why!” And Tomaj makes a wide sweeping gesture with his arm and bows as he steps back to give Kytes the floor. “The exact opposite!”

Penelo puts a hand on her hip, pointing a finger at him. “That’s exactly the problem!”

Vaan’s hands lace behind his head as he laughs, reaching the bottom of the steps. Ashe shakes her head, but she’s still smiling, so even if she doesn’t get it she’s having fun. It’d be great if this is the kind of energy that they can take on the Hunt. Him and his crew get stupid giddy when Ashe is in a lighter mood, and Vaan would _love_ to take credit for it when the meet up with the _Strahl_.

Her smile’ll knock Balthier right out of the captain’s chair.

His grin grows at the thought. Balthier is obviously someone dear to him, but it’s also _infuriating_ how perfect he is. Everything is _always_ coming up roses for that guy. Not that Vaan would ever want anything seriously bad to happen to him, but he’ll take his little victories when he can.

He’s never come out and said it, but Vaan is ninety-nine percent certain Balthier takes it as a personal offense that Ashe befriended his ‘apprentice’ before himself. Vaan really enjoys that, cracking Ashe’s code first.

Of course, Balthier might have beat him to it if he weren’t so busy being _cool_ -

 _!!_ Vaan immediately whirls around.

The other three squabble, unaware of his sudden alertness. The guards too are standing around, waiting for Ashe to go forward so _they_ can move forward, but they also don’t make to move when he looks behind them.

Vaan squints directly into the crowd. It felt like they were being watched for a second there, but it’s gone now. To have felt it at all, someone must have been staring for a bit… As he scans the shuffling masses, no one stands out among the already eclectic hodgepodge of people milling about. Like Dalmasca, Bhujerba is incredibly diverse and nobody really looks out of place because of it.

 _Ashe_ is _a queen, I guess_ , he considers, nothing and no one jumping out at him. Might have just been someone curious about the dame surrounded by guards. Deciding it was probably just some gawker, he turns back around to face his friends.

Ashe, still steps up from everyone else, is looking in the same direction that Vaan had been. Her head is lifted, her eyes visibly bouncing from person to person, searching. Huh. So she felt it, too.

Apparently coming up empty as well, she drops her stare to him. He shrugs.

“You’re famous,” is all he can think to say.

She looks at him, face unreadable. After a moment, she sighs. She gazes back out at the Marquis’ people. “...For better or worse.”

“Yeah,” although something itches between his shoulders.

That’s about all they can say on it, though, as Penelo shoves a laughing Tomaj. Deciding it’s better to keep moving (and rescue Kytes), Vaan announces it’s time to mosey. The walk is filled with repeated sentences as both Ashe and Vaan are caught not paying attention to the conversation.

“Geez!” Penelo playfully hits his arm. Ashe and the guards had delivered them to the inn with promises to see them tonight. They shared a last nod of acknowledgement and then Ashe departed. It looks like they beat Filo back. “What’s got you all distracted?”

Good question.

But as he makes himself feel better by holding the room key above Kytes’ head to make him jump for it, Vaan can’t shake that itch between his shoulders. If someone dared to try to hurt Ashe right in front of him and Penelo…

Well, a part of him wishes they _would_.

Penelo laughs and scolds him, telling him to give Kytes the key. Vaan relents with a sigh, but it’s a happy one because she then pats his cheek with a smile. _Yeah_ , he thinks. S _omeone can try something on my watch any other day._

Just not tonight.

**###**

Ashe slowly exhales a breath, staring down the stairs.

She has caught up to Filo, who sighs loudly, meandering around Lhusu Square. Bhujerba has a decent mix of social classes, but Vaan had said Filo doesn’t like to go further east than the Miner’s End. Something about the clean streets and flower basketed windows makes her comfortable.

She comes to a stop at the edge of the Square, leaning against the stone railing, looking over the side at the clouds below.

Warning the retinue to mind themselves here, Ashe descends the stairs to speak with her subject. A few miners turn and stare, but not one tries to approach her. Her kind are certainly a rare sight near the mines.

“It’s just not fair!” Filo shouts at the clouds. A few of the laborers look over, but her outburst is mostly ignored.

Ashe purses her lips in a slight grimace. They stand much deeper in the shadows, but Rabanastre has its own streetear network. Ashe has been putting it to _work_.

Her people’s unease is well-felt. She is neither deaf nor blind to the dissatisfaction being grumbled about along the stalls of the bazaar, down the fields of Giza, echoing about the Nebra.

Things were supposed to be _different_ now, they say. All of ‘hoity-toity’ high society that could afford to lose whatever Archaida took were supposed to get theirs. They never gave anything, not even a damn. All the governors and earls, the countessas and dames - all the Ladies and Sers that sold out their countrymen to buy a place in Vayne’s new order.

The people were supposed to _rise up_ and take from them, the way they had been taking all along.

Filo crosses her arms on top of the railing, resting her head on them. Ashe quietly centers herself before approaching.

She’d like to hear it directly from someone she is meant to be providing for. No one else would dare to be honest with her about it, not even - perhaps especially - Vaan or Penelo. Filo is _clearly_ unhappy, however. Who better to ask?

“Filo? May we speak?”

Filo looks over her shoulder. She looks passed Ashe at first, noting the Marquis’ armored up _Parivirs_ lingering back on the stairs.

“That by ‘royal order’?” she mocks, facing forward and dropping her head back onto her arms.

“I lack dominion here,” Ashe tries to joke, the gravel crunching underfoot as she comes closer. “That is why I ask.”

Filo blows a raspberry against her forearm, eyes down. Ashe stands besides, her hands folding themselves regally atop the stone railing. She watches Filo peeking over, seeming to stare at her hands. Unless she is to wear gloves, there is no hiding the calluses that lotion couldn’t mend.

Even Ashe is sometimes confused by the poise of scars.

“I ask again, may we speak?” Filo shrugs slightly, sulking. “I know these post-war efforts aren’t what you expected.”

“ _You’re_ not what I expected.”

Ashe’s fingers flinch, surprised. Filo must not have intended to share the thought out loud. As pink as her top, she hides her face.

Instead of any kind of reprimand, though, Ashe just sighs. “There is much of that going around.” Penelo has privately said Filo still isn’t sure if Amalia _is_ Ashelia. She never paid enough attention to the Princess before to have enough of a memory of her, apparently.

Did anyone?

After a moment she adds, “What  _were_ you expecting?”

That does it. Filo’s head snaps up and she glares at Ashe. “I _expected_ you to do something!” Her fists are tight. “Get _revenge_ for us?” Ashe raises both her eyebrows, but her eyes don’t change. “You’d want it, if you’d been wronged, too.”

She blinks, pressing her lips together. She waits a moment before replying. “I _am_ Ashelia,” and she says it so gently.

Filo tch’s. “The real Ashelia offed herself forever ago.”

Ashe catches herself from rolling her eyes, her stare landing flat on something above Filo’s head. Her tone matches. “So I have heard.” She leans her hip against the stone, tilting her head. “Would you rather I had?” she asks.

Filo scoffs and blinks, flushing, completely caught off guard by the question. “No,” she sputters. Uncomfortable, she curls back in on herself, mumbling against her arm. “..iked y...fore.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I liked you better before,” she sighs, loudly. Her face must be burning, it’s so red. She scrunches her nose. “When you wanted to kill everybody.” Well. That is a little more extreme than what polls have brought back. There had been a time, though, when the rumor the Resistance Leader Amalia going on a rampage had been a new hope for her people, cramped and stuffed beneath the streets.

Lowtown had been giddy, a frantic buzz of whispers about the Angel of Vengeance, tearing through Ivalice and killing Judge Magisters. Her skypirate einherjar roaring across the continent.

“You even blasted an Archadian fleet out of the sky!”

Ashe’s chuckle is low, sheepish.

Then she murdered Vayne, and Filo thought that was only the beginning. “The first rich bastard’s head to roll,” Filo laments with a spit.

The first and last. That baby bird of an emperor back peddling and trying to duck out of the fights his brother started.

“Is Emperor Solidor much older than you?”

“Age is crap?” Filo gripes. “The reaper doesn’t check our papers.”

“Profound,” Ashe comments. “ _Dark_. Still, profound.”

“And you _let_ him. You let them all go.”  She sniffs, giving Ashe a dirty look, ignoring the compliment. “After everything the soldiers did, they get to pack up their things - most of which they _stole_ , by the way! Getting to... to... ‘Orderly Vacate’ the homes they chased people out of to begin with!”

Yes. It is not fair.

"It doesn't matter, if you're Ashelia or not." Big, angry tears well up quickly. No, it wouldn't matter, in that case: Ashe ruined it either way.

Filo wipes at her eyes angrily. Going on three years now, since the _Bahamut_ became the world’s most terrible lawn ornament. Foul and lingering, a constant reminder of all Vayne did, all the Empire let Vayne do.

“I couldn’t get out of Rabanastre fast enough.”  
  
All Ashe cannot undo.

“I agree.”

Filo sniffs, palming at her runny nose. The most Ashe can afford to look is displeased, but the situation turns her stomach to this day. She cannot grant her people retribution, they would not survive it. It feels very similar to abject defeat. 

She places her hand on Filo’s shoulder, and the young girl flinches. Contact isn’t the most welcome thing, when you grow up on the street, or so Ashe has been told. She has also been told, however, the Queen’s hand is a cool touch, a comfort for the desert. “I also have little recourse. We could not have won the war, had Lord Larsa opted to continue it.”

Not good enough. “You could have made them pay!”

“All of Archaia?” she asks, tired, patient. Is this what it was like to speak with her three years ago? “The first people Vayne Solidor conquered were the Achardians.”

“Yeah, _right_ ,” Filo sneers. “They were really _suffering_ in their arcades, with all their servants. It must have been _really_ hard on them, having to fit all their crap in our homes! Having to put up with our food, wear their fancy clothes in our heat.”

Ashe sighs. “That was not all of the Empire.”

“Name one.”

“Even Balthier?”

Filo spits. “He’s no better.”

“He saved Rabanastre from the _Bahamut_ ,” Ashe says, a bit stunned. At incredible risk to himself. Fran as well. Ashe had thought any price for freedom was good enough until they were not found. For a year, in the pit of her heart, it cost her too much. “Including you.”

“When did I ask?”

Ashe scoffs, bewildered. This is a hurt that cannot be reasoned with. She knows it well. Deciding to let that point go, she goes back the previous one. “The whole of the Empire did not move itself upon Dalmasca. No matter how it felt.”

Making fists again, Filo slams them down on the stone. “So kill all the ones who _did_!”

She glares up at Ashe then, her bristling frame and angry eyes _daring_ her to say something like ‘I can’t do that’ or ‘it won’t bring your family back’ or something else equally trite. Instead, Ashe regards her with something too close to pity to not be offended by.

“I killed the people that wronged me,” she says without pretense. Her voice isn’t even flat; it’s more empty than that. “I did not feel better.”

She’d felt _triumph_. But it never brought her joy, never made her feel whole. The gaps were still there, precious people still gone.

Filo scowls. “That’s your problem,” she snaps. “I got simpler tastes.”

With an angry huff, Filo stuffs her face into the crook of an elbow, hiding it in her crossed arms.

Deciding that will likely be all the progress she makes here (however backwards), Ashe decides to depart. Filo says nothing at her goodbye.

Well. Ashe asked for some insight into her people’s perspective and she got it. For better or worse.

With a final glance back, Ashe ascends the stairs to rejoin the retinue.

She highly doubts Filo will attend the race.

**###**

Filo sniffs.

The tips of the clouds are beginning to turn orange. The miners have all left for the day, and she’s alone in the long shadow of the mine.

The gravel crunches behind her. The toes are metal, and she sighs.

“Go away, Vaan.”

Of course he doesn’t listen.

Of course, he isn’t Vaan.

Filo loses consciousness before she realizes that, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way late update orz I'm sorry! But! The fated party starts next chapter! 'Beoulve' is Ramza's family house in Final Fantasy Tactics! This has no significance in this story, since FFT takes place nearly one-thousand years after XII, but I was struggling to name Vaan's ship and have an easter egg this chapter since there's been one in each so far. Two birds!  
> Man, everyone is so excited to go to this shindig. I almost feel bad about it.  
> Almost.  
> See you next update! o7


	5. chills o1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chills**  
>  **noun:** _a feeling of coldness occurring onset of a high fever_

**CHILLS  
** **1/1**

 

Fran enjoys the morning.

Contrary to a popular belief that Fran has yet to learn the origin of, the Viera are _not_ up at dawn. If any of the Wood stirs before noon, it is begrudgingly. It is easy to sleep about in the heat and shade, and when Fran had taken the early post with the Wood Wardens, her motivations lied more with getting away from everyone else than a love for the early hours.

Yet still, well beyond the Wood’s embrace, morning is the quiet time for Ivalice as well. There is a sweet spot: after the people have dragged themselves to work but before consumers are about. It is a steady, mellow thrum; a murmuring bustle that no longer chaffs her ears, instead it keeps her company.

The ratcheting grind of the wrench yanking the nut back echoes around the engine room. Nono is buried beneath pillows and blankets in his tiny box-turned-bed beneath the repair bench. Balthier had tried, but Nono did not want a proper sleeping space. He prefers to feel the engines to make up for not being able to hear them; silent is about the worst thing a ship could be.

The _Strahl_ keeps a coy whirr that stresses him out, kupo, and whatever else he frets about.

It matters little to Fran. This is how she prefers to start her days. Early yellow light cut up by all the seats in the cockpit; flecks of dust and metal shavings drifting around the air, kicked up by the small fan she turns on first thing; the rhythmic sound of _work_ as she puts tools to use.

Every tool. She’s set a goal for herself, to go through Nono’s entire cabinet of specialty wrenches and odd-ended screwdrivers before he departs the _Strahl_. He is currently saving up to start his own shop, and though he is still a large sum away from his goal, it does place a time limit on her challenge.

Nono said he did not take issue, but she would have to build the doo-daads that require those tools herself.

Well. She may be biased, but Fran thinks she’s built quite a few things more impressive than ‘doo-daads’. Still, she has some shelves to go.

There is a pause when she reaches for a number nine, careful of the snoozing moogle at her feet as she crosses her legs, and then the bridge door disengages with a clean _thunk_.

This is also part of her mornings.

There is a brief flutter of sound - a series of flirtations and some laughter from the aerodrome attendants - then the door reengages and it is quiet again. His footsteps find her soon enough, and Balthier tosses her a poppyseed muffin. Long fingers swipe it out of the air and he grins at her.

“Ever on your game, dearest.”

A small voice of agreement in her throat, and Fran takes the coffee he offers her. He doesn’t mean anything by it (well, not too much, anyway), it is just his way. One must always meet a lady with a gift, so he says. Besides, he’s always impressed by what prices he can flirt his way down to.

More than any of that, though, he needs to be on the move. When he doesn’t want to be somewhere and flying away isn’t the reasonable option, he will find them something to eat nowhere near by.  

Wandering is also his way.

Balthier has retreated the few steps back to the doorway, settling his shoulder against it in a comfortable lean. He learned quick not to hover around her work.

“Bustling morning for the aerodome,” he says.

“The Marquis’ guests are arriving early and eager,” is her matter of fact comment. Her tongue presses against the pad of her finger to collect the soft crumbs left from her muffin.

Balthier winces. “I heard. You’d think the Moogles were paid to gossip.”

“Are they not?”

“Ha!” But it is a hushed sound, so as not to wake Nono. “Who told you? Mogareite?”

Fran chuffs. “Mogareite favors you.”

“Too right.”

“Mogomery,” she states, her stare impatient. The other Moogle attendant for the Bhujerba aerodome. Balthier’s expression remains smug. “I wonder, how Ondore plans to keep things casual with such a list of names.”

He lifts both eyebrows at her. “Anyone unexpected?” Viera don't have the widest range of emotional displays, but he knows her well enough to know her sidelong look is wry. He knows her well enough to know he cannot fool her. "Has Mogareite short-changed me, Fran?"

"She charged you nothing, I expect. You get what you pay for." He rolls his eyes, making a good effort for annoying charm.

It is a front. Right now, it annoys her. She _has_ tried to let him work things out on his own. In fairness, Fran does expect that he can and would - the question is whether not she has the patience for however long that would take. After his attempts to get out of this party reached the double digits, she knows she does not.

“Al-Cid Margrace is not the only guest of his caliber tonight.”

Balthier gives a mild shrug before lifting his coffee to surely hide his grimace. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Fran’s ears twitch. “You need not speak of him tonight.”

His eye roll is a tool to not meet Fran’s eyes. “And miss the latest Ambervale gossip?” he asks as if the very _idea_ he would care is so ridiculous. Yet, he cares very much. She knows he does. It is always subtle, but Fran has seen how his frown etches just a touch deeper with every herald’s headline of the Queen’s visits to the Clan Margrace holiday province.

From behind his coffee, his tone is more snide, betraying his thoughts. “She could barely stop herself last time.” Fran tuts, setting her muffin atop the bench and taking back up the wrench. Here he goes.

“We hadn’t spoken in a year, isn’t that funny?” though he is not laughing. “The _first_ thing out of her mouth when we’re alone, and it’s all about _Lord Margrace_.” Fran says nothing. Just continues to tighten bolts. “Tells _me_ to see the sunset there.”

Deciding against allowing that spiral to start, Fran interrupts the familiar rant he’s warming up to. She’s only heard it on and off for years. She does not want to put up with it on the Hunt. “As this is a repetitive talk,” and he looks away from her with a grimace, “I too will restate something: you need not speak of him tonight.”

“As she is practically living there,” he grouses, “I imagine the topic would be hard to avoid.”

“Do not speak with her at all, then.”

“Why, Fran!” Baltheir’s fingers drum the cup, finding a slight but real amusement. “If you’re jealous, dearest, I’ll remind you you had your chance.”

So she had. Fran can distantly think of mentioning such to Vaan, when his silly but amusing crewmate acted a fool across the deck in a deeply unsuccessful attempt to take her favor. It had almost struck her as a bizarre mating dance, and she had idly commented to Vaan that Balthier’s attempts to woo her had been very different.

 _Attempts_. Even as her favorite Hume, it is not as such for them. It isn’t something easily understood by non-Viera, but Fran likes him too much to love him. It is just not how her kind care.

There are some Viera that manage to jerry rig together some kind of emotion resembling a more conventional idea of _romance_ , but Fran will gladly pass on it. Viera live for several hundred years; Humes are lucky to see the end of one. They often do not reach a compatible maturity until their third decade, and then in no time at all, begin to decline.

‘Falling in love’ with a Hume is like asking to be devastated every fifty years. Conversely, Rev live nearly as long as Viera, and Helga live even longer. Those would be _real_ commitments. Fran has yet to see such a couple, and thus continues to believe her ‘romantic’ sisters are simply playing their lovers. Perhaps playing themselves as well.

When the time comes that Balthier’s mortality is at its most evident, that will be… difficult. She is _glad_ there will not be the added layer of loss that comes with romance.

Besides, it has been greater fun watching his affections grow when she is not on the receiving end.

“Protective, more like.” She tilts her chin up.

He tuts. “I don’t need _auspice_ , Fran.”

There is a slight, knowing lift of her brow. “Don’t you?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Not from Ashe.”

“From yourself, then.”

Balthier blows out a breath, looking down to find the riveted paneling interesting.

“You are horrible lately,” he mutters, but there is no bite to it.

“And _you_ ,” she says, tearing off another tuft of muffin, “care too much for what she thinks of you. It has made you disingenuous,” Fran warns before eating the torn quick bread. He immediately glares at her. That, too, lacks any real malice.

“Fran, please.” He adjusts his cuff, careful not to spill his coffee. “I know how to maintain my image,” he tells her indignantly.

There is a sound in her throat, pushed down as she swallows her bit of muffin. “Of what?”

It’s just rude enough to be mocking, and finally his dirty looks gets some real darkness to it.

“Not everyone is as naturally flawless as you, dearest.” Fran’s eyebrows arch a bit higher as he looks away then, scowling at the maintenance hatch for the right turbines. “There may be a _slightly_ different person beneath all this perfection.”

Ah. There it is.

She scolds him, though her tone is teasing. “You make to keep this person from her?”

“ _Well_!” he announces with sudden and forced cheer, pushing off the door frame with practiced of ease. Balthier’s smirk is cool and careful, but she can see how much the nerve she has struck stings. “I am _so sorry_ to hear you woke up on the wrong side of your cabin. Why don’t I go get us some breakfast?”

Without waiting for a reply, Balthier promptly dumps his remaining coffee from what is now First Breakfast in the drip tray of the turbines’ coolant tubes and departs. Fran takes no offense. It is the reaction she wanted.

Balthier is quite wordly and mature, level-headed and clever. But he is still a scant half-decade older than _Vaan_. He rejected a conventional lifestyle early on; Fran thinks that for all the fantastical things this has allowed him to do, it has left him somewhat under-prepared to deal with more domestic situations.

A moment like this highlights his youth.

Such moments _are_ rare, and grow more rare every year they venture together. Fran’s patience for these moments vary wildly, likely because of her lack of experience with them. Perhaps that is a sign of her _own_ immaturity.

Nono crawls out of his bed, waddling out to check the corridor as the bridge door locks behind their sulking ‘captain.’

“He won’t like your eavesdropping,” she observes, returning to her work.

Nono rubs at his tiny eyes. “I wasn’t eavesdropping for long, kupo. It seemed more rude to interrupt,” though the last bit gets lost in a yawn. Fran’s only response is the sound of tools. Nono sniffs. “Why don’t Humes just talk to each other? Why make it so hard?”

“Heh,” Fran smirks. Dangerously close to smug, “If it is not difficult, it is not a Hume’s way.”

“Kuuu-po!”

**###**

Vaan whistles in appreciation.

Twilight leaves the sky two-toned, the east a balmy blue and the west still yellow above the horizon. A golden hour, where anyone decent and wholesome are winding down, leaving the night and streets to the more deviant crowd. In Dalmasca, the temperature shifts without the clutch from scorching to freezing, but Bhujerba clings to a more reasonable warmth well past sunset.

Alright. Cards on the table? The Marquis set up a helluva of course. The appeal of the party (even its food!) went old for Vaan well within in the first hour. He ditched the lesser dandies and parlor gamblers to spec out the track.

It is _scary_. And unapologetic: the curves run steep, expecting the racers to know how the ground in Bhujerba works. Some of these dips look just plain mean, and Vaan recognizes he’s going to have be cycling the glossair rings quick or he’ll be losing his skin as well as the race.

It’s a lot nicer than anything on the Phon but somehow more dangerous. If what Ashe said at dinner is right, Vaan can easily see this raking in mad money.

There is a burst of sound and Vaan turns around to see Ashe coming out onto the deck. She looks around for a moment, halting when she sees him. The towering glass doors close behind her, silencing the shimmying party.

Facing her fully, he gives a little wave. “Hey, Ashe Attack.”

“Don’t call me that,” and maybe if she hadn’t been Queen for two years, she’d have groaned.

He grins. “What’s the deal, cactus peal?”

“I received word my village was missing its idiot,” she says, coming to a stop.

“Penelo worries too much.”

Ashe shakes her head. “You should be nicer to the girl who loves you, Vaan.”

He shrugs. “Meh. She knew was she was getting into,” he kids, but at Ashe’s scowl, his shoulders dip, sheepishly correcting himself, “I’ll go find her in a sec.”

“ _Good_ ,” she nods. Then she steps up beside him, adjusting her skirt as they both look out over the track.

Vaan had barely dressed up at all. He left his vest at the inn and his dress shirt half undone, with his chest somewhat exposed until his trademark cammarband. Penelo convinced him to wear a pair of unstained trousers, but the trade off is that he wears his racing boots because carrying them is a pain.

Penelo, wherever she’s at inside, is looking too cute in a yellow, bubbled romper. It’s the one with the ribbons for shoulder straps Vaan loves to undo. Her face gets all scrunched up and pink, but she doesn’t really mind all that much. When he tracks her down here in a second, he’ll have to give one a tug.

A ribbon Vaan will _not_ be pulling is the one on Ashe’s hip. It laces all the way up her side to her waist, a paler shade than the skirt itself. In the crystal light inside it looks purple, but out here it’s almost blue; a shimmery veil she keeps messing with swishes around the fabric underneath. Vaan hadn’t been sure at first, but after getting caught staring at Ashe’s legs, Penelo told him the solid layer is split so far up her thighs in a few places on purpose (“Like the Queen is going to wear a torn up dress, Vaan, geez!”).

There’s a sliver of flesh between the top and the bottom. He doesn’t even know what to call her top. He doesn’t know anything about _girl clothes_. Made in two layers like the skirt, there is a _deep_ neckline, ending at a tiny embroidered strip that goes around her ribcage. What might as well be two different pieces of fabric are pulled up her chest and tied together behind her neck.

Her upper back is entirely exposed, and Vaan is glad Ashe doesn’t let those shadonir shit comments about her being ‘so muscular for a proper lady’ get to her. She just knows how to use a sword. She’s already too thin as far as he’s concerned. Royal court likes all its members emaciated and weak.

They’re just jealous she doesn’t look like the wraith they’re smearing her as.

“You _would_ need a leg up,” Ashe comments idly.

“Hey!” The insinuation is not lost on him. Rude! Like he’d have to cheat! “I’ll out skill anyone here,” he sniffs, gesturing out to the track. “I was just admiring all this.”

“Ah.”

“Gotta hand it to the Marquis,” Vaan says in appreciation, shoving his hands in his pockets. “This is a thing of beauty.”  
  
Ashe hums in agreement. “Mm. Uncle likes his sure bets.”

“What was he doing with the Resistance then?” Vaan’s joking, of course, but Ashe answers him seriously anyway.

“The more I learn of the official war efforts, the more I doubt Vayne could have won.” He turns towards her quickly in surprise. Ashe folds her arms beneath her chest, stare lost on the horizon. “Rozarria is just too great of a military might. The _Bahamut_ was an answer to Rozarria, yet the only question was how much of Dalmasca would remain. Outwardly, Uncle had no choice but to take Vayne’s offer. To secretly fund the Resistance could be perceived as his ‘true colors’ to Rozarrian leaders, however.”

Vaan’s lip curl back in a sour grimace. “He hedged his bets.”

“If you want to be foul about it.” After a moment, Ashe sighs, finally looking a him. “But yes.”

He brushes a hand beneath his nose. “The old man plays dirty.”

Her smile is rueful. “He plays to win.”

“I mean...yeah.” He doesn’t know what else to say. He scratches the back of his head, unsure of where to go from here. They’re saved from the awkward silence by the ballroom doors opening again.

“Ah! Here you have gone!”

The tension is broken, and Vaan raises a hand in greeting. “S’up, Al-Cid.”

With a swagger in his step Vaan wishes he’ll one day have, Al-Cid struts over with purpose and a grin, his ‘birds’ dutifully following.

“My sky urchin friend!” he proclaims, taking Vaan’s outstretched hand for a confidant handshake. Despite the offensive description, Vaan is _not_ offended; running around Jyllhand together taught Vaan that Al-Cid only calls someone by their name if he doesn’t like them.

He looks to Ashe, expression much more at ease. “And here is our Desert Rose.” Al-Cid quickly trades Vaan’s hand for Ashe’s, skillfully lifting her fingers to his lips.

“You have greeted me already,” she reminds him, but she doesn’t pull away or look all that upset about it.

Al-Cid waves her off with his free hand. “But this was inside, you know. I would not want the stars,” and he gestures up, “to think me rude.”

If Ashe is fighting that little smile, she isn’t trying all that hard. Vaan laces his fingers behind his head, casually looking between them. Everybody’s heard the rumors, but Vaan himself isn’t sure where he’s at with them. Of all the rogue nobles they know, he’s got his own suspicions about who’s at the top of her list.

That being said, Vaan’s witnessed first hand that Ashe just doesn’t get what she wants most days.

He hesitates, but then steps away from them, towards the party.

“I’m gonna go find my girl,” he says, walking backwards with his hands behind his head still.

Ashe nods to him, but he thinks maybe they weren’t done talking about the Marquis yet. It seems like she had other thoughts on... all that, but she’ll share them when she’s ready. In the meantime, Al-Cid lets her hand go to tip an imaginary hat to Vaan. His bird gives a silent, slight bow.

“I will be betting on you, my friend!” Al-Cid calls out.

Vaan grins, unwinding his hands to thump a thumb against his chest. “Nobody’s got this like me!”

Ashe nods to him again, smiling. Then she and Al-Cid return their attention to each other, and Vaan heads back in.

**###**

_Just a touch earlier_...

Penelo steps right into Vaan’s vision, hands on her hips.

“What are you looking at, mister?” she asks grumpily. He winces, scratching at the back of his head. So she was right! He _was_ looking at Ashe’s legs!

“Just…” He ducks his head, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Ashe’s dress has got _holes_ in it.”

“Buh?” She blinks and reels around, making sure Ashe didn’t spontaneously change clothes in the time it took Penelo to stomp in front of Vaan.

Ashe is being spun around the dance floor by some imports baron whose entrance was announced but Penelo can’t think of the name of. She watches the skirt of Ashe’s outfit fan out before twirling back around her, her legs flashing for a moment in the dance.

Penelo then laughs, lightly smacking the back of her hand against Vaan’s chest. “Those are _split pleats_ , you dweeb!” she tells him. “They’re there on purpose, so you can see her legs when she walks.”

Vaan wrinkles his nose. “Oh. Just wear a shorter skirt. Or shorts.” Sometimes he’s too practical, really. If she didn’t love him so much she might think he’s an idiot.

She might think that anyway. She shakes her head, smiling. “Like the Queen is going to wear a torn up dress, Vaan, geez!”

Looking back at Ashe, Penelo feels an envy. She’s in love with that halter top, embroidered flowers pearled and competing very well against an extremely plunged neckline. It must be tied pretty tight to keep any, ah, _movement_ from happening. Penelo isn’t endowed enough for something like that to be flattering on her (she’s hardly endowed at all), but she can live vicariously through Ashe.

Vaan dips out after that, already bored. Penelo encourages him to look at the course instead of make a scene to entertain himself, something he luckily decides to do. Tomaj is likely still in the card parlor, lulling the richer guests into a false sense of security over cards and dice in hopes they’ll make larger bets during the race. Kytes has barely left the desert table.

Penelo meanders about for a little while, keeping her eyes up for a familiar pair of ears. So far, none of the few Viera present have brown tipped fur -

“Looking for someone?”

Penelo nearly yelps, twisting quickly on her heels to find her gently smiling Queen.

The prickling flush of heat the comes with a deep blush spreads fast up to her eyes and down her neck.

Yikes! She can’t tell Ashe the truth! Penelo looks around uselessly, nervously playing with her hands as Ashe waits, curiously tilting her head.

“I, uh, uhm - mm…!” She snaps her fingers in ‘ah-ha!’. “Vaan!” Ashe blinks. Yes, that’s it. She’s looking for Vaan! “I misplaced him,” she lies, feeling incredibly lame. “And you know how dangerous it is to leave him unattended and…”

Ashe smiles in acknowledgement. “Indeed. Although, I admit I expected you to name someone else.”

Surely Penelo’s eyes are too big. “O-oh? Whom?”

“Filo,” Ashe says. Penelo blows out a heavy breath of relief before realizing, actually, yeah; where _is_ Filo? She hadn’t come back before everyone had gotten dressed and left for the party. Ashe looks a little sheepish. “I spoke with her after I departed from the inn,” she says. “I… angered her. I doubt she is attending. I’m sorry.”

Ashe almost looks guilty, and Penelo is quick to put her hands on her friend’s arms and give them a comforting squeeze. “Filo is like that,” she says, smiling. “She was, well...poor before the war. Being around people with money is hard for her.”

All true. She never talks about it much, Penelo thinks because it’s too painful, but Filo was the only orphan from their Lowtown crew whose parents are likely still alive. They were basically homeless since before the second swing of the plague, her parents going to Giza or further south to find work.

One day, sometime after Raminas had been killed, her parents left to find work and just… didn’t come back.

Raising a kid is hard enough, doing it on the streets is impossible. Giza in the Rains is treacherous but during the Dry is usually pretty safe to travel through. It’s _possible_ something happened to them, but it’s even more likely they found easier living beyond the Royal City’s walls and left Filo. As incredibly sad as that is, it is also isn’t entirely unheard of.

Filo has always struggled with not hating people of wealth out of sheer jealousy, but the fact that she believes her parents chose financial stability over their daughter really exasperates it.

“I don’t think she planned on coming to the party at all,” Penelo admits. Ashe nods, something still unconvinced and sad to the gesture, and Penelo feels a strong pang to ease it. “We’ll see her for the races, though, for sure!”

Which isn’t totally out of the question. Filo _does_ love swallow racing.

Ashe gives a smile and a small sigh, not entirely convinced. She lets it go, though. “Let us track down Vaan, then,” she says. “You are right: I do know how dangerous he is.”

Penelo bobs her head in a nod. “Exactly!”

After promising to send him her way, Ashe and her lovely outfit disappear between bodies. Penelo hopes looking for someone is enough of an excuse to keep Ashe off the dance floor. She hasn’t said no to anyone yet, as far as Penelo can tell, but Ashe definitely hasn’t said ‘yes’ with any enthusiasm.

And that’s all, for a little bit.

Having checked in with Kytes (who is absolutely eating himself sick on over-stuffed pastries and rich chocolates), Penelo hops slightly in the chattering crowd of guests, rocking onto her toes as much as her heeled sandals will allow before resting back on them. She’s too short, dang it.

The Marquis seems to have invited more non-nobles than just the _Beoulve_ crew - or more likely, the nobles hired racers from all walks of life. Even though they’re all in the ballroom together, her and Vaan and the other racers had to enter through another way. It’s not like they were smuggled in through the servant halls, but it definitely wasn’t the main entrance.

Even in places like this, a standard has to be maintained, she figures.

She isn’t all that upset about it; the dance hall is _gorgeous_. The marble floor has a mirror finish, flecks of gold pressed into the tiles glittering in the crystal light. The ceiling is beyond tall, a beautiful cloudscape painted across the inside of the dome, and she’s so impressed the crystal chandeliers light the ceiling as well as the floor without either washing out.

The real ‘centerpiece’, though, is the windows surrounding the room: what Penelo can only consider straight up _art pieces_ stand nearly two stories tall, a menagerie of colors coming together to form stained glass portraits of the twelve zodiac - but they’re so large, the imagery only comes together if you’re standing at least halfway across the room from them.

The lower halves of them all double as door, though Penelo thinks most of them are sealed; she’s only seen the main door and the three leading outside open, and no _Parivir_ are posted at the others. It’s a shame the outer wall of the dance hall faces north. If direct sunlight hit any of them, the room would be even more stunning.

She would love to dance somewhere like that, just a floor of infinite color.

For now, though, she’s just frustrated by how busy said floor is. It’s not overly crowded but there’s definitely _a_ crowd, and while she knows she’s short, she can’t believe she hasn’t spotted Fran or Balthier yet. Especially Fran.

She hopes they came. Or, like Filo, will appear during the races. If she doesn’t find them tonight, she’s pretty sure they won’t be around tomorrow for the Hunt, either. The Marquis had given her a lovely overheard for the Hunt, but like Tomaj has told the others, the details are being withheld until after the races.

Obviously, Penelo knows she’d been a bit underhanded with her notes to them, and there’s every chance they didn’t like that. Still… She’s going to be _so_ disappointed if they don’t come along.

Getting her friends together for a single thing shouldn’t be so hard, geez!

Between some guests, she and Vaan spot each other from opposite sides of the dining platform. Ashe must have found him, and true to her word, sent him to find Penelo. He grins at her, lifting a hand in acknowledgement. The tension in her back begins to melt at the warm feeling his smile gives her tummy, and Penelo happily waits for him to come to her.

Well, she’ll just scold them later, she figures. Vaan wouldn’t let anything ruin her good time -

Although he’s immediately going to have his work cut out for him:

The dance hall is suddenly rocked by explosions of colored glass and the room starts screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaa oh my God, I'm so behind, I'm sorry! orz I also apologize for chatty!Fran, but the scene she's referencing about Vaan and Tomaj is from RW, chapter seven or eight. The easter egg this chapter is the stained glass zodiac mosaics, from FFT. But if you noticed the FFIX moogle nameing theme, that's good too!  
> Hopefully see you soon! o7


	6. fever o1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Fever**  
>  **noun:** an abnormally high body temperature, usually accompanied by other symptoms, varying in severity.

**FEVER**

**1/3**

 

Ashe will find Vaan later.

For now, she watches him return to the party.

“I like him,” Al-Cid comments easily, turning back around to face her. “He is good people, that one.”

She smiles as the doors close behind Vaan “I agree,” she says genuinely.

“Did you happen to mention…?”

Scarlet instantly rolls across her cheeks.

“...No,” she tells him more quietly, unable to meet his eyes for a moment. “I told you, I am thinking on it.”

He pulls a theatrical expression, grimacing with his whole body. “As _I_ told you: such a luxury is not likely.”

Her scowl is mild. Instead of arguing with him, she turns towards the stairs off the side of the deck. “Walk with me.”

“My Lady,” he obliges with a lone nod of his head, deep enough to be a bow.

The stairs descends to a manufactured arbor path. The flattened soil row is covered by trees on either side, branches painstakingly trained to weave through each other as they grow.

“What a dangerous place to be,” he observes.

Ashe gives him a sidelong look. “I am not in danger of you.”

“Ah,” and the vowel is drawn out, rumbling. “But did I say it is dangerous for _you_?”

She clicks her tongue with a flush and he laughs at her.

“So now we are away from the lazier prying eyes.” Al-Cid never pushed back against her wishes of not wanting to make the rumors about them truths. He still teases her about it, from time to time, though. “But this will cause more wagging tongues, eh?”

Ashe folds her arms casually. “I am more worried about stretched ears.” He tips his head in acknowledgement. “This is not something to be referenced even in a loud room.”

“Or outside of one, mm?” He shrugs. “Aah, you are so paranoid, My Lady.”

“Mistrust has served me over better virtues.” She arches her eyebrows. “I would expect your experience with intelligence,” because it would be rude to outright call it the Rozarrian shadow network, “would leave you worse than I, in that regard.”

Al-Cid waves her off. “Trust the trusting, eh?” Ashe rolls her eyes. His demeanor eases to something more serious. “Though I cannot seem to win you over, as you idle with what I bring you.”

Ashe sighs in aggravation, shaking her her head. “Can you not understand me in this?”

“Aa. Your hesitation, yes. Your inaction, that I cannot condone,” he shakes his own head, before holding out his hand. Cindy immediately steps forward, placing a small golden sphere in his hand. An eccentric Faberge puzzle made for the equal parts rich and intelligent. Produced by some hidden away scholar, they’ve since died off in popular as many of the people who can afford them are not smart enough to solve them.

Al-Cid is on his second. Ashe still has hers. She pretends she lacks the time to dedicate to it and it is for that reason alone it sits unsolved, and not a commentary on her intellect. “I have to be certain before I act.”

“I would not want you to act otherwise,” he agrees, fiddling with the puzzle. “You could, however, stand to - and should be - investigating, My Lady.” Her shoulders sink slightly. “I do not wish to be right in this, but it will take substantial evidence to see my gladly wrong. I am surprised you would not take this to our mutual urchin friend.”

Ashe sighs, her fingers absently tapping against the back of her hand. “I had intended to, but… I…”

“Lost your nerve?” he challenges in jest, but at her immediate sour look, he grins. “Ah, of course. Of all that you have lost, it would never be that -”

The sudden and multiple _crashes_ of breaking glass have all five starring back towards the dance hall in alarm. Before Ashe can settle on any one fear to have, Mindy - _Sandy? They're all so similar_   - grabs an arm each for Ashe and Al-Cid, yanking both nobles to the ground -

_Boom_

**###**

Balthier grunts, pushing as much as he can without throwing out his back.

“ _Gods_ ,” he grits through his teeth. “Do for a bit of...Mist, eh?”

“Shut up…!”

Fran isn’t doing much better.

He and Fran had been loitering in the coat room (the gold and gems people leave in their pockets, goodness) when Fran dragged him to the floor by his shirt just before the explosion shook the room. Racks and shelves rattled and tipped, falling heavily against the attendant desk they managed to fit under.

Pinning them down there.

One...two...and on the count of a struggling three, the massive wooden clothing shelf if forced away, rocking back just long enough for them to spring from the desk. It slams back down for a terrifying _crack_ , collapsing the desk beneath it, and Balthier is sure either of them would have lost a limb had it caught one.

He wraps his knuckles against it. “Solid oak.” Instead of tut'ing his joke, Fran stares past him, not seeing anything at all. She’s concentrating on listening.

He doesn’t want to interrupt her, so he lowers his voice as he moves to help her up. “What do you hear?”

Her face turns pensive. Most anyone else couldn’t tell, but Balthier can. “Panic.”

“Well, then.” It’s only a well-maintained nonchalance that keeps his voice even. Fran takes both of his offered hands and he hoists her up. “Let us see what that’s about, hm?”

She brushes her hair back, stubborn strands sticking to the sweat on her shoulders and neck. “I would see us armed.”

While they showed up dressing the part for Ondore’s gambling soiree, and snuck in besides the point, there is _no way_ they’d be able to transverse the halls armed; the _Parivir_ and attendants were checking and labeling weapons at the main entrance. He and Fran stowed away their more offensive gear within easy reach but out of sight, to be retrieved at a later point.

Such as now, perhaps.

Balthier gives a quick glance around before opening the door completely and they step out. The sense of unease up the back of his neck spreads at the sight of the empty hall. No one running away or looking for help. They’re not exactly sharing a wall with the ballroom. And the explosion cracked the ceiling and paint this far away…

Wouldn’t it be nice if no one is seeking aid because no one needs it?

“It would serve us better to separate,” she says, a minute wince as she pulls off the decorative headdress, yanking it from her tangled hair.  

Fran had swapped her filigree headgear for a piece made of delicate gold chains that fall in loops around her ears and down the crown of her hair. Something simple so as not to compete with the dress: a peach qipao split up the sides to the very tops of her hips, trimmed with gold. The short sleeves are sheer and flared, Vieran lace, the same material that’s webbed between the separated pleats.

Balthier grimaces as her long nails easily shred through the lace. It’ll be easier to run in, but that dress had been expensive. He had groaned at the total when she rang out at the boutique. Fran _hates_ wearing Hume-style clothes, even for work, but _of course_ the one dress she _did_   like was four digits. Of course it was.

He’s already dreading what it will cost to fix it.

“Divide and conquer,” he agrees, finishing rolling up his sleeves. His own outfit is downright demure by his standards. A plainer black vest, crisp and matte for the front, a contrasting sheen down the back. Beneath it, a dark blue tunic with a tall collar he’s left unfolded, and long sleeves now cuffed back at his forearms, tucked into low-waist charcoal trousers. The waistband is basically at his hip bones, entirely unpractical for real work, but Balthier about fell in love with himself all over again when he saw the elongated effect it had on his torso. He _had_ to buy them, come on.

Loath to be ever without them, a pair of belts are looped around the top of his hips, crossing as they hang. Pulled down by his satchels, Balthier made sure to shine the stiff hide they’re made from for the night.

Since rarely anyone notices footwear as long as up top looks good (and their up tops always look good), the both of them wore sturdy shoes, Fran’s empirical heels, and Balthier’s trouser legs pulled over deep-tread black boots.

“You first,” she advises, nodding in the direction of the ballroom.

“Just this once,” he winks. His innuendo understood and ignored, Fran sprints down the hall to find the servant's closet they had stashed their weapons within.

He couldn’t justify the rings tonight, but he could hide the bracelet by rolling it a bit up his arm to hide beneath his sleeves. Now, the colors bounces around his wrist in his peripheral as he jogs towards the dance hall.

Their time in the main residence of Ondore’s estate had been especially limited, but the damage is growing worse in this direction, as well as the smell of gunpowder, so he’s confident he’s picked the right direction. His instincts are rewarded when frightened chatter comes from around a corner and haze begins to fill the hall.

Rounding into it, Balthier nearly trips over a man laying on the floor. He passes through the scene in a smokey blur: a woman sits against a wall, coughing and fanning herself; another man is on the floor, but he isn’t moving. Balthier slows to a stop behind three crouched _Parivir_. He kneels when he realizes they’re hovering over the Marquess.

She’s a bit dirty, her hairs all over the place, and there’s some blood on her face. Balthier doesn’t think it is hers, and his concern is beginning to shift to alarm.

“Stop!” one of the soldiers hisses, and Marquess Zhara Ondore flinches, looking behind her to see Balthier kneeling on one knee, hands up in surrender.

“I would rather help,” he says carefully.

“ _Kah_? I k-know you,” Zhara says, shaking so bad her words stutter. They had met briefly, after returning Ashe to the Marquis. “Y-you helped m-my - my -”

Balthier nods, lowering his hands, and finishing for her, “ - Your husband, yes. I would help again. What happened?” He keeps his voice as gentle as he can while pushing the conversation forward. The woman is clearly in shock.

She begins to shake her head, then looks to one of her guards. His cloth uniform has spots of glitter, likely broken glass, but he too has blood on him that doesn’t appear to be his. It’s dark, grime from the explosion clinging to the splatter and his mustache.

“Bombs, of some kind.”

“Plural?” Balthier had only noted one explosion.

Mustache nods once. “The explosions were small, but consecutive. Overlapping.” He speaks like he’s trying to report. “ _Alas_ , I don’t think much of the northwest section is left.”

“Will the room collapse?” Because that would be an entirely separate nightmare.

“It shouldn’t,” advises one of her guard - only, as Balthier gets a good look at him, he’s predominantly blue-clad. A _Parijanah_ , with a _lot_ more blood on him. As he clutches a limp arm, the blood appears to be his own. “The...cardinal walls are...more...load-bearing.” His breath is pained and labored. “North is the wall...we can afford…to lose. It’s…outer...facing.”

So the roof isn’t likely to come down. Small favors. “What of the Marquis?”

“My Lord was on the east side,” the mustached soldier grunts. “Dancing with one of his granddaughters.”

Zhara jerks. “Renata!” She clutches as Moustache. “She’s so small, _haa_ , she -!” Her alarm is broken by a panicked sob, and her guards are quick to reassure her.

“The Marquis has his own guard, Lady Marquess. They will see them right.”

It’s like she can’t hear them. Her voice breaks. “She’s eight..! Eight..!”

Balthier nods at Mustache. “Best to get the Marquess, and yourselves, out of here.”

Practically speaking, a hysterical person is only going to worsen what is certainly already a bad situation. Beyond that, the blood and debris give tragic implications. She doesn’t need to be here when the smoke clears, revealing the totality of whatever is left in the hall.

Mustache doesn’t take orders from Balthier, but he nods to the younger guard to take the _Parijanah_ while he helps up their lady. As he half carries her past Balthier, she grabs at his arm, leaving a smear of blood.

“Please!” Zhara begs over her shoulder. “Please!”

Balthier lifts her hand from his arm, the bloody handprint surprisingly bright on his tan skin, and gives her what he hopes is a comforting squeeze before letting go. The younger guard is helping the _Parijanah_ up.

He reaches out to help steady them, leaning in towards the guard to ask quietly, “Any idea on Queen Dalmasca?”

The _Parijanah_ leans heavily against the _Parivir_ , who shakes his head. He answers as they hobble past. “She departed for the deck some time before. After that, I dunno, _bhadra_.”

Balthier nods his thanks absently, as neither are facing each other anymore. He moves carefully, around the wall chunks and torn up carpet, slowing as he reaches the entrance to the ballroom. Dropping into a crouch, he inches towards the corner.

He can see clearly tens of guests pushing back, slowly moving away from the northern wall. A body darkened in the shadow of the crowd and smoke darts out the main entry. Balthier smirks. He’d know that cammarband anywhere. It’s a relief to know the troublemaker is both alright and not rushing into anything. Vaan has, perhaps, finally learned something.

He refocuses back on the crowd.

There are some downed guests that are conscious but cannot stand, others that aren’t moving at all, but of anyone awake, all of them are starring in trepidation at something Balthier can’t see. It’s not just the damage the explosion did. Something is _there_.

Pressing his back to the wall, Balthier carefully peeks around the corner.

Many of the guests huddle back away from the broken windows, shiny chips of rainbow in their skin and hair. Stained glass shards make a jagged kaleidoscope against the pale marble floor, crunching and splintering under the feet of the intruders. Black and feather garb, hideous masks, a lot of belts - then the one up front announces:

"Pardon the intrusion, we'll be quick; we seek Raithwall's Wytch."

And here Balthier thought he’d be bored at the Marquis’ party.

Balthier narrows his eyes. The speaker has a tricorne hat tilted low, covering his eyes. A leather or something close to it swallow tail coat - very long; Balthier’s never seen one reach so near the floor. The standard fur trim has been swapped out for feathers and lots of them, long and curling out, stuffed thick enough to nearly obscure the lower half of his face. Similarly, matching feathers are at his coat cuffs, gloved hands nearly hidden to the knuckle.

Tricorne is accompanied by two others. One is gigantic, the other Balthier _believes_ is a woman, wrapped in a black peacoat, with an excessive series of belts crisscrossed down her torso starting from just underneath her arms, flattening any bust she may have.

Different from the rest of the belts is a much wider, sturdy leather strap that Balthier is sure to note is likely a holster of some kind, though he can’t tell what she’s carrying. The holster is weighing down what might as well be a feather skirt, curled and flowing slowly as a she sways. Unlike Tricone, whose boots are short and with black spats, hers are tall, past her knee. Her face is entirely hiding by maybe a veil? Some cloth or another, shrouding her entire head.

Lastly, the Big Boy. He’s obviously a Rev or the world’s tallest Seeq, a hulking mass, made even larger by the jagged feathers jutting out at his shoulders, from the seams where the sleeves connect. His take on the over abundance of belts is up his arms and down his legs; not quite thick enough to use a size that would go around a man’s waist, several of the straps on his biceps and thighs don’t reach and are held together by seamstress pins.

He seems to have similar black cloth around his head, but instead of hanging loosely like the woman’s, his is held tight with a thick collar around his thicker neck.

Balthier wouldn’t know why they’re bothering with the veils, with those disgusting vulture-inspired masks tied to their faces. A gnarled, hooked beak with misshapen nostrils is an unsettling dark color. The imagery is obvious: birds of prey that are, or have recently fed. The crown of them has the same patchy fuzz of any buzzard, the rest of the mask painted a sickly color that reminds Balthier of inflamed skin.

The eyeholes are set wide apart, and he doesn’t think they’re functional.

Tricorne isn’t a wearing a veil, as far as Balthier can tell. At least, nothing is obscuring his mouth.  Likely why he’s speaking.

“Has anyone seen her? _Hmm_?” He leans onto the cane posed before him, rolling in a bow from one side to the other. It’s as if he’s peering at the guests, but the hat is hiding everything from the nose up. The guests shrink further away.

Balthier swivels his head around to check down the hall. The coughing woman and the man he had nearly tripped over are gone. The other man remains still and face down on the floor.

 _Come on, Fran,_ Balthier silently encourages, returning his attention back to the ballroom. He would rather not have to act weaponless. He still thinks the woman is packing something heavy; he’s willing to bet nearly any amount of money that cane has a sword in it, and; while he’s never been struck by the hamhock fist of a Rev, Balthier would rather it stay that way.

He expects Vaan left to retrieve any weapons he had checked at the main entrance, and though the rascal is hardly Fran’s caliber (or Balthier’s for that matter), it’d be better to take a sword to a sword fight.

Before he can decide if it’s better to wait here for Fran or try to meet Vaan somewhere along his way back, the room is illuminated by a flash of orange, a fireball whipping out in a roar at Tricorne.

His cane cuts through the strike, splitting it past his person, the tips of his feathers smoking and dotted with embers.

Like, everyone else, Balthier watches as -

- _oh Gods no_ -

 _Penelo_ rushes after the whirling flames, knife in hand.

**###**

Penelo glares at the intruders.

Being in the dining portion of the hall, she, Vaan and Kytes had been far enough east to escape the initial explosion. Within seconds, Vaan got to her while she scurried to Kytes who’d been knocked from his chair. Quickly surmising superficial scrapes and splinters, they squinted into the cloud-filled hole.

Having dealt with their fair share of grenades and gunpowder, they immediately looked for figures in the smoke and falling debris.

They found them. Vaan had given her shoulder a comforting squeeze and then was gone, probably to get his swords and her stave. Which is probably for the best because when the man in the hat speaks - "Pardon the intrusion, we'll be quick; we seek Raithwall's Wytch." - Vaan probably would have wanted to throw down barehanded.

She doesn’t know what that means, but the only person she knows of that’s King Raithwall’s anything is _Ashe_ , and Penelo immediately knows she can’t let these people near her. Still crouched, she looks around her, Kytes staying even lower than she is.

Amongst all the mess nearest her is a crippled dining table, a leg broken off in the explosion. What remains of dinner has been either blown away or dropped to the floor - including a hulk of zu breast, with a large carving knife sticking out of it, likely left there for later by a server.

That’ll have to do.

She moves, slow but quickly.

Faring better with magick, Penelo still requires a catalyst, something to conjure through so as not to hurt herself. It takes someone pretty powerful to use magick barehanded; back when they had been carrying the Stones of Espers, all of them had been granted greater strength, durability, speed, _everything_. They all gave them up, though, when the war was won. A fragment of the blessings linger, leaving them noticeably more durable than most people. But they’re nothing like they were when they had pacts with the Stones.

So, now, even despite the fact she probably _could_ cast without a stave or rod or anything, Penelo will injure herself in the process, not to mention she’d be lacking any kind of control. There’s every chance she’d freeze herself or the ground instead of her target.

She’s never lost her love for daggers, though.

Yanking the large, serrated knife from the overturned meat, Penelo stands and pivots to face the assailants.

“Has anyone seen her? _Hmm_?”

The flinching and whimpering crowd combined with his cheery inquiry turns Penelo’s stomach.

It’s all happening so fast, it’s been scant minutes since these people stepped out of the smoke, but that’s too long to wait as far as she’s concerned. Vaan’s impulsiveness and Ashe’s righteousness have imprinted on Penelo but she’s grateful for it right now.

Someone has to help these people _right now_.

Lifting her arms, she slaps the blade against an open palm, eyes deadlocked on the thin man speaking. Assuming the Marquis doesn’t skimp on his cutlery and the silverware is indeed silver, she should be able to manage _fira_. Maybe only a single cast, but it’ll be something. Maybe it’s all she needs.

The incantation for the flame spell is hissed quickly. She couldn’t risk anything more powerful with something not meant for magick, but the knife is pure enough to get off a shot. She follows it.

The thin man swipes at the fireball, which is what she was expecting; having just swung the cane, it’s now the furthest from his person it can be while still holding onto it, and Penelo lunges forward from her sprint with the knife.

_Clack!_

The cane deflects her attack, and Penelo has to grind in the heel of her forward foot to keep from being knocked off balance.

Recovering in a heartbeat, she swings again, again, again, and again. He’s holding his cane with both hands, brunting her swings until - she’s close enough to see his teeth as he grins, _oh no_ \- Penelo has to slow for a hair’s breadth of realignment. She’d been swinging so hard that each block forces her back.

It’s all the opening he needs. His hands take to the silver ornate handle and he swings it like a bat, though not at her but the _knife_.

There is a sharp _snap_ as his hit connects with enough force to send her arm flying back. Luckily, it’s not her wrist breaking but the blade, the knife losing four or five inches and becoming snub-topped. Surprised but uninterested in wasting time, Penelo inverts her hold with a flick of the handle, what’s left of the blade now pointed towards the floor, and she twists her body rapidly, making a downward stab at his chest.

He sidesteps to her right, taking her assailaning arm by the elbow before she can bring her hand back. Using her momentum against her, he yanks her forward into a stumble - “Aah -!” - hauling her around to face the frightened crowd, cane under her chin and hard against her throat.

Both of his gloved hands are pulling the cane further in, digging filament and lacquer into her neck.

She tries to struggle.

“Whoo! My goodness! Where did you come from, love?”

_I can’t breathe...!_

**###**

Balthier grits his teeth.

The crowd gasps when Tricorne whips her around, pinning her against him. The hold he’s using is weird, reminding Balthier of how someone holds a lute or a Rozzarian guitar, one arm reaching over both Penelo and the cane while the other’s grip is underhand.

“Whoo!” Tricorne croons, sounding at least somewhat winded. “My goodness! Where did you come from, love?”

The fight happened _quick_ , nary more than seconds passing between Penelo’s fire spell and her now clutching at Tricorne’s grasp. The other two had simply waited back, watching. Penelo had clearly surprised them, but not one of the three appeared worried at any point, beyond occasionally moving their masked heads to make sure no one else was jumping in.

Balthier checks behind him again, wondering in frustration what could be keeping Fran, only to look back and find Penelo’s face has darkened to another shade of red.

“Now,” and Tricorne smacks his lips, keeping his hold on Penelo as she tries to struggle. “You’re far too scrappy for a bodyguard. But! You’re too desperate not to care.”

Balthier places a hand on the wall, preparing to enter the room. The option to wait around for either missing skypirate is waning posthaste. His other hand grips at one of the satchels looped onto his belt. There’s more than a pack of cards and coin inside.

He may be weaponless but he is not powerless.

The thought of using _That_ , though, is…

Penelo swipes blindly for his face, fingers curled, looking for skin. Tricorne jerks his head back, giving a breathy chuckle. He retaliates by lifting the cane up, forcing her onto her toes. “I’ll take that to mean she’s here, then. So!” He sounds like he’s grinning, but there’s nothing but dark things in his tone.

“I’ll say it louder, for everyone in the back!” He faces himself and Penelo around, her body sickly swinging with him. Gods, she’s going limp.

Penelo’s ragged gasps are coming further apart and a vein in her forehead can be seen even from over here.

The decision is made for him. Standing, Balthier strides into the room, heading for a still standing pillar, flipping up the flap of the satchel. _That_ must know his intent; he can feel _That_ pulsing before his fingers reach it.

Tricorne bellows.

“Ashelia B’Nargin! _Where is she_!”

Balthier’s glare flinches back in surprise for a moment. _Raithwall’s Wytch_. Of course! How did that not register for him? No wonder Penelo attacked so recklessly.

 _That_ in hand, Balthier telling himself the consequences will come later, he prepares to once again do something heroic (mustn't he always?). This time, however, someone beats him to it.

“Right behind you!”

The three assailants whirl around to look out through the crater they made, Tricorne lowering his cane enough for the tops of Penelo’s feet to drag along the rubble.

Beyond them and the smoke and dust, the night sky and all its stars acting like a glittering curtain drawn back for her arrival, stands Queen Dalmasca herself; chin high, eyes narrow, no part of her afraid.

Because it had been too much to hope her silence meant she was nowhere near by.

He groans from behind the pillar.

**###**

Ashe has already decided to march up the stairs.

See what in Nine Hells _all that_ is about.

Placing her hands upon the dirt, she’s pushing herself up while the other four are still shaking the explosion from their ears. Minus hitting the ground, whatever debris was flung down the stairs did not reach them. No one seems any more worse off than slightly dazed.

Mindy helps Sandy, and Cindy helps Al-Cid. It is a short list of times trying to help Ashe didn’t result in snapped unappreciation.

Still, because of said help, they’re all on their feet before Ashe is. Between that and knowing her so well, Al-Cid holds an arm out, nearly taking up the width of the path to block her. Ashe narrows her eyes.

He would not insult her by suggesting she flee (that did not go particularly well the first time he tried that, when they met on Bur-Omisce) but that doesn’t mean he’s opposed to _himself_ fleeing, albeit temporarily.

“Though I am so loath to leave a lady to her own defenses,” he says quickly and hushed, “I am not well-enough equipped to defend you. We are at a disadvantage.”

“Your mistake,” Ashe says, coming to stand beside him as he lowers his arm. Al-Cid squints at the side of her head, a look of suspicion. Ashe faces the stairs. “I no longer allow for _disadvantage_.”

As she does with most all her evening gowns and formal wear where she must be naked of a sword, Ashe keeps her most powerful weapon in the least conspicuous place. Reaching around and under the shimmery fabric of her halter, her index and middle fingers remove what she keeps hidden beneath her left breast: a dark red crystal, cut rough and capped with rock.

Al-Cid’s eyebrows disappear into his wavy bangs. “You will be armed with a pebble?” he asks, incredulous to the point of being rude.

She clicks her tongue, snapping the ‘pebble’ into her palm. “Do what it is you want, Al-Cid,” she says, annoyed. “I will do the same.”

“Of this, I have no doubt.” He gestures his attendants back. “Just promise to throw your pebble from afar; at least allow me the sporting chance at being chivalrous.”

He is nervous, at the very least. But he trusts that if nothing else, Ashelia B’Nargin is _always_ ready for a fight. More than any of that, though, there is little hope of talking Ashelia B’nargin _out_ of a fight. The only person who has ever manage that particular feat, is Balthier.

After the last few years, Ashe could almost _dare him_ to try again.

So. After a hurried and somewhat worried bow from Al-Cid, he and his birds flock off to retrieve his checked artillery.

Ashe climbs the stairs quickly. The explosions blew out the lamppost bulbs and cracked any glowing crystals, but the stone held in her hand gleams bright, the orange light so intense it casts a yellow glow through the skin of her closed fist.

The patio, or what is left of it, is largely what she expects. What remains of the stone work and cement are scorched black, any surviving wood burning. The dining hall suffers a wide and tall gaping wound made of three or four separate holes, overlapped across each other. Windows and the wall are pulverized, smoke and powdered marble wafting into a grey, lingering cloud. She can see some figures just past it, thanks to the surviving chandeliers inside.

Vision may be obscured, but sound carries through the curling, settling mist just fine.

“Ashelia B’Nargin! _Where is she_!”

Ashe sharply inhales.

Of course this is over her. Of course it is. An event stuffed to the gills with investors, trade moguls, merchant barons, lesser nobility and other royalty, _why wouldn’t_ Ashelia B’Nargin be the intended target of...whatever this is.

Well. She is quite adept at finishing what foolishly ambitious men have started.

“Right behind you!”

The three figures in the dust immediately turn to face her. The movement clears some of the air around them, sweeping coats acting as heavy fans to sweep the debris away. Three figures become four, the lumpy shape in the center actually two bodies -

A frozen stone falls into her stomach, Ashe’s insides twisting sick and slow, sloshing at the realization. Not only is the center figure holding someone at the neck with a pole or bar or some other long shape, that someone is _Penelo_. Even through the smoke, her forehead is a red and blotched purple, her head bowed and wobbly as the man turns them both to face Ashe.

One hand has two fingers hooked weakly onto the - _It is a cane_ \- but there is no grip; her other arm is limp at her side. Her legs are bent awkwardly, slack as she’s dragged around by the man.

The freezing sensation inside her cycles, a burning cold that becomes just burning, a fire she knows how to use well: _anger_. Rage is the weapon Ashe is most trained in. A blade never dull, a firearm always loaded.

“Ah!” The man strangling Penelo is pleased to make the Queen’s acquaintance. Ashe’s glare grows more menacing as a sneer begins to curl her lips back. “Your Majesty! I believe I have someone of yours!”

She has no way of knowing how many of the party-goers are still within the ballroom, how many people a spell of her caliber could injure. For now, she lifts her hands, keeping her fist closed, as she rests them regally against her ribs.

“I do not like when my people are touched,” Ashe warns in a bite, tilting her head stiffly.

“As you wish!” is his chipper reply, immediately letting go of the cane on one side to lift his hands in mock surrender. Ashe gives a soft gasp of shock as Penelo’s thin and little body _thumps_ heavily to the ground. Thankfully, mercifully, Penelo gives a grunt as she lands, followed by painful, wet coughing.

 _She’s breathing_.

And out of Ashe’s line of fire.

“Majesty.” And though his face is obscured, she can hear a wide grin, infuriating and mocking.

“Thank you.”

Then Ashe raises her closed fist, the back of her hand facing the attackers. All three shift slightly, curiously, defensively. Ah. So the sigil is showing through her skin then. _Good_. She takes a dark pleasure whenever she can provide a non-verbal answer to an unspoken ‘what is that?' 

 _Maelstrom_ , she whispers in her mind. There is no need to yell; the Gigas has always known her voice, has never been afraid to trust her with his power. Her birthright. Her most willing servant.

The air heats up in a loud snap, accompanied by the sharp aroma of splitting atmosphere that always comes with an electrical charge right after the _crack!_ \- Ashe herself disappears behind the flash as she thrusts her hand forward, directing the orange, pink, white lightning at the black-clad assailants.

Ashe would have taken issue with their presence regardless, but besides coming here at all, attacking Penelo is likely the worst choice they could have made.

Her grip is loosened, Belias comfortable and familiar in the curl of her fingers. The bolts come from behind, dynamic tendrils in jagged spears launching at her enemies. Though lightning can scatter without a path, Ashe has never struck something she would not want to.

Blinding cirrus strike the building, each point of impact scorched black. The existing fissures grow, some splintering along the walls into the remaining windows. What survived within the panes ruptures, exploding every which way. Sharp, hot shards of glass rain down across the patio and further. Any debris that flies towards her is destroyed by the crackling magick around her.

The smaller two, the man who dropped Penelo into a heap and the thin one, read the attack with just enough time move. The Maelstrom is devastating and quick, but it has a slight wind up. Interestingly, they launch themselves _forward_ in their dodging instead of back. The large one is either lacking in speed of body or in mind, or perhaps in both, but catches a bolt straight in their chest regardless. Another follows them backwards into the dancehall.

Chandeliers inside as well as other glass within the ballroom shatter, the explosion of crystal just beating out startled cries. So there _are_ people still inside, and they are now plunged into darkness.

Ashe steps back quickly as the flashes fade, maintaining some space from the two that thought to close the distance between she and them. As well as keep the fight away from anyone inside. She would rather everyone has the sense to _leave_ , but she was outside when the initial explosions occurred. It’s possible there are no longer available exits.

A future problem - or, someone else’s problem for the time being.

Her main concerns now are killing her ambitious assassins with as little collateral damage as possible.

Ashe’s innate is lightning, Belias marches in flames; both could see the surrounding forest kill them all with mismanaged casting.

The two are up, their black coats and leather accouterments dusted to pale grey from the lightning pulverizing fallen chunks of plaster and marble. The man that had Penelo brushes pointlessly at one shoulder, smearing the dust around.

“Quite the opening move, Your Majesty!” he comments loudly. Ashe’s eyes narrow slightly. _Where are you from?_ her mind wonders with a mutter. A faded Archadian accent perhaps? Something is wrong with the Rs, though, something she had noticed with his shouting earlier.

The other adds delightfully, “I like it, when they’re mean an’ haughty,” and Ashe has to smother surprise at a _woman’s_ voice. The hitch in her words is more prominent, and Ashe will have to think about it later, what accent that is.

Not a priority.

Belias held tight, Ashe lifts her hand again. His sigil shows through her skin. It is a bit of an act. The most immediate downside to Belias allowing her something so powerful is that his Stone must quench its sudden thirst. Espers and their magick rely on Mist. It is everywhere, in anything, but unless the area is concentrated with it, it takes time.

She will just have to buy some.

“You wanted an audience.” Ashe lifts her chin. They may be taller than her, but she can still look down her nose at them. “Now you have it.”

Their belts and feathers rustle as they shift. She doesn’t dare to take her eyes off them, but she is very aware their co-conspirator hasn’t reemerged.

The man lifts the cane over his head, letting it come to rest behind his neck, his hands gingerly clasping the ends. “So we did! Your Certainly Bellicose Majesty has her presence requested at Castle Avadyamoor.”

“I have no knowledge of such a place,” and that’s the truth. _Avadyamoor_. She can’t recall a province with that name, but she makes sure to plaster it to the lining of her mind. “I will decline.”

The man tips his head, disappointed. “Right. Well… Here’s the thing.” He spins the cane down his neck, letting it fall in a twirl before catching it. Deftly, one fluid motion, he pulls a _blade_ from the cane - a thin sword. The gleam is mat, unpolished or painted in something.

“Allow me to rephrase…”

As the man lifts the sword, pointing it at Ashe, the woman reaches behind her, pulling out a cord linked between two spheres. With a flick of her wrist, they begin to whirl, blurring as they spin. A thick _whomp whomp_ sound indicates how heavy the bolas are.

A capture tool.

They’re not assassins.

They’re abductors.

“...Your presence is _required_.”

Ashe cannot help swallowing the growing lump in her throat, so she hopes it’s subtle. This isn’t good. If they are not here for a fight, then -

The swordsman tilts his blade down, flat edge towards Ashe right as the women lifts her other hand - there is a bright flash. In a fraction of a second Ashe staggers back, the ground shaking, and then she is tackled to the ground. They had made to blind her, and someone else took her down, _the one I left inside -?_

No. As quickly as the person seized her, they are pushing themselves up with a grunt.

“Got your six, Ashe.”

She feels relief before she knows why.

Ashe gains her bearings quickly, _Vaan_ on one knee beside her, swords in hand. Some part of her had vaguely wondered where he’d been, assuming he’d been hurt or worse after witnessing the state Penelo was in.

“Penelo?” she asks, pushing herself up, cursing her _stupid_ dress and all its pleats.

He isn’t looking at her, instead surveying their battle ground, but grins. “My girl’s good,” he says. His smile falls. “Whose jaw am I busting over that, by the way?”

Vaan stands, tucking one sword under his arm so he has a free hand to offer her. Now isn’t the time for her pride to refuse, and so she takes the assist.

“Swordsman,” Ashe says. The word wobbles as Vaan hefts her up with more force than she is ready for. They have all changed in three years time, but none more than Vaan. His mismatched swords he wears crossed on his back are in memory of Reddas. It had taken him time, to work out a proper memoriam for his _truest_ pirate mentor, however it seems worth the wait. It’s a lovely gesture.

That deals serious damage, and that’s what matters right now.

Ashe yanks her skirt around, so it is not twisted about her legs. “My six?” she asks, thinking on what he had said after bringing her down.

He untucks his sword and rotates his wrist with hilt in hand to resettle his grip. “That guy,” he clarifies, nodding towards a third body. His back to her and Vaan, coming to a stop from a run.

Ashe is mildly embarrassed to see that the one she had left inside has indeed made his way outside _and_  seems to have made to grab her from behind without her realizing. Shameful enough, now that he’s clear of the debris and smoke, his full size is revealed. He makes a slow pivot to about-face. Ashe doesn't know how she missed such a massive person.

The shaking ground. Had that been him running up? So as to grab her after she'd been blinded. 

The three have spaced themselves out, a three-point formation. The swordsman keeps his blade pointed, gripping the cane sheath likely as a defensive weapon; the woman begins to spin her bolas again, keeping a slow pace; the huge man flexes his massive hands, clenching them into fists and relaxing them again.  

“They are not here to kill me,” she tells Vaan, the two of them back-to-back.

“I heard,” he sniffs. “Time to do your Ashe Attack.”

“Shut up!” Ashe hisses, pushing away from Vaan to signal it is time to take the offensive.

Vaan kicks off, swords poised to take on the man that strangled Penelo. Regardless of his personal reasons to focus on him, it’s the smartest choice available. The woman has some kind of capture equipment, but the large man - a Rev, maybe? - doesn’t need them. He’ll have no trouble carrying Ashe’s small form without restraints. If Vaan has the attention of whom is likely to be the primary aggressor, all the better. She needs to keep both the other two at a distance.

So. Belias has little to offer her right now beyond the greater strengths and speed that come with their pact, but that is a plentiful enough gift for the moment. Lifting her arm, the air immediately begins to chill. Much of the forest has been cleared away here, but leaves are far from the only flammable thing out there.

Crystals being to form, her exhale a puff of white. The clash of striking steel is her cue. Jagged, thick ice blasts forward. They strike the ground before the woman, piercing pillars forcing her back and interrupting her bolas.

Before the spears land, Ashe rightly swings her arm around, a violent burst of air jutting from her palm - just barely enough time and force to catch the huge man barreling towards her. The airstream sends him skating backwards, the soles of his boots never leaving the ground, leaving black skid marks.

Ashe does a fast check around her. Vaan's blades are locked against the sword and cane of that man, and Ashe considers her next move quickly.

This had been her fear when she realized they wanted her alive. When she had made that grand display of power, she had assumed it was do or die, and that always comes down to whom can out-power whom. Every blow is everything you have.

An abduction is a race of _endurance_. You out pace your prey in order to collect your spoils. Making such an extravagant attack has placed Ashe at a colossal disadvantage. The _very thing_ she had just claimed to Al-Cid she refused to suffer.

Pride and the falls after it.

She is bladeless, yet even if she were not, she would still be relying on her magick to drive them back. The last thing she wants is to be near them; if any of them become close enough for immediate quarters combat, she will have lost.

Unless something miraculous happens, the only recourse she has now is to hold out for either her Uncle or Al-Cid’s reinforcements.

She looks from the woman - _She has tools but seems to want to maintain a distance_ \- to the huge man - _Fast, sturdy but susceptible_ \- to weigh her options -

“ _Ashe_!!”

She knows not to look to Vaan, that his cry is a warning and to find the threat, but Ashe realizes she’s lost sight of the woman too late. She finds her just as she throws something.

It hits the ground with a _bap_ , Ashe knowing there is no time to flee but tries to turn away anyway.

There’s a _snap_ and then _popping_ sound, instantly followed by a pressure against her collar bone and nape of her neck, a sharp, prickling pain after.

Vaan calls her name again as she stumbles. The swordsman is kicked backwards, falling onto his back with a grunt. Despite landing a hit on Ashe, the woman is more concerned with him.

“Khyle!” she calls, her feathered skirt bouncing and swaying as she begins to move for him.

“S’alright,” ‘Khyle’ coughs, pushing himself up. It’s a slow movement, however, so Vaan’s managed some wear against him. She hurries to him.

Vaan puts himself between Ashe and the huge man. His back to her, he calls over his shoulder, “You okay, Ashe?”

Ashe grabs at whatever nearly got her neck. There’s only three, thin, long... _Needles…_? That is exactly what they are, and they’re close enough for her to gather in her hand. They sting but that’s about it, shallow punctures that will clot before they bleed too much.

That woman has hurled a Needle trap at her, specifically so as to land it face down to set it off? Needles are annoying and little else; unless they get into someone’s eye, they are usually incapable of doing any serious damage. 

Was that supposed to do something?

 _How insulting_. The needles in hand, Ashe yanks. They are not even barbed, pulled from her skin easily with a grunt. She hurls them at the ground angrily, nearly growling as she does it.

Vaan lifts his eyebrows looking at the large man. “Now you’ve gone done it.”

Then he ducks with a grin, a bolt zapping right over him. This time, the man knows to get out of the way, but he still dodges backwards, which is good enough for Ashe.

She faces about, hand out to set her rude would-be abductors on _ablaze_ , surrounding forest be damned, but hesitates. She blinks twice, shakes her head, but their images are blurry. The smoke must be getting to her.

Ashe lowers her arm, deciding her aim will be better closer (although not too close), but despite being very sure she’s taken a step forward, she goes _backwards_ , giving a soft ‘oof’ as her back collides with Vaan’s chest.

“Whoa!” Vaan crows, holding his arms out to keep her from falling to either side. He lets his swords flip in his hands so the blades are pointed down, but wisely holds onto them. “You sure you’re alright?”

Of course she’s alright. It’s hard to get the words out, however, and she lifts her right hand to pat at his left bicep. The same way she pats his back when it’s time to stop hugging. Vaan knows, and tips her forward to see her put back on her feet.

She sways slightly but stays upright. Vaan moves ahead of her, to face off against Khyle and the woman that are themselves getting upright. He will bear the burden of two against one. She only needs to fend off the last of them.

“See ya out there,” he chirps.

Ashe nods without looking at him. Her adversary is cracking his knuckles and, she assumes, staring her down from behind his hideous mask. So ugly, it’s hard to look at. It looks…odd. Was it so odd?

Why is it looking at her like that?

Her throat is tight and it is hard to swallow. The smoke has made her thirsty, she decides. She...can't recall why there's so much smoke. In any case, Belias pulses in her hand. He has found more to give her. A response to feeling the spike of danger she experienced. For some reason, he feels heavy in her hand, and so she uses both to lift him.

Ashe plants her feet wider, thinking the ground must be rippling, affecting her balance. North… North? She is on the north side, yes, but - No. That’s not it. It’s… _What is it? What is… Oh._

“North...wain’s...”

It comes back to her as a dull thought, the spell spoken carelessly and without control. White shimmering pools of light appear across the ground, scattered and unlike the precise line she normally aims with. They slosh silently, a heavy pause taking the battlefield, before pillars of scalding power rupture from them. Brilliantly, violently, the sudden spires aim for the sky, bathing everything in a hot glow.

The other four, Vaan included, all cry out in surprise and throw themselves away from any of the pools that appeared before them. It is all that saves them from being impaled and incinerated.

Ashe feels as if some unknown third party has cast a slowing spell, though not on her but Time itself. The terrifying light, the frantic scramble the others make to get out of the way: it is all a bizarre, stuttering scene, as if Ashe can only see it every few seconds. She feels cold, her thoughts are sluggish, _what is happening_?

Again, her mind catches up with reality. Just in time to see the man she was supposed to be keeping away reaching for her. She’s in no state to fight back, her left arm is so heavy, she can’t even push him away...

_Thwinp thwimp_

Ashe blinks, her hair fluttering from the whizzing projectiles. Arrows, apparently, as they have struck the man, both in his shoulder, spinning him around and away from Ashe. Al-Cid and his entourage use firearms, and Ashe doesn’t think Uncle has an archery brigade…?

She’ll ask him when she wakes; she’s tired. Tired enough to sleep right now. Giving in to the mighty need for rest, Ashe waits for the impact of hitting the ground.

Instead of being walloped by the tough, lumpy debris, the ground catches her. It is so soft for stone work; warm, holding her against it with an arm around her waist -

“ _When_ will you ever learn to pace yourself?”

\- and sounds rather Archadian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't apologize enough for the glacial pace this update took! But, I'm sorry all the same! On the upside, this got so long I've had to break it up into two chapters, so y'all will be getting a speedy update.  
> I usually don't post a fic until the story is entirely done. This is reminding me why. Sorry again!  
> The easter egg this time is pretty blatant; Cindy, Mindy and Sandy, the names of the Magus Sisters.  
> See you soon! :pray hands: o7


	7. fever o2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Continuous Fever**  
>  **noun:** shows a characteristic step-ladder pattern, a step-wise increase in temperature with a high plateau.

**Fever  
2/3**

 

Balthier is going to read Fran the riot act.

Probably not, not really, but he would feel a lot better if she found the time to _reappear_ with their pirate armament.

“Ah! Your Majesty! I believe I have someone of yours!”

If for no other reason than to shoot this _absolute git_ right in his surely annoying face. Ashe may or may not be alone, but even if she isn’t ( _Dear any gods available, tell me she isn’t_ ), Balthier might have to act immediately anyway.

Penelo has been lacking in good tools for her fighting expertise, but that doesn’t mean Tricorne or any of them can be written off. It’s not like Ashe’s experience is any kind of secret; people call her the Warrior Queen, for Gods’ sake. Her ability to win a fight is at least slightly implied. Even if Ashe weren’t a terror on the battlefield, it should be expected that she’d employ those who are.

The short of it: no one is coming for Ashelia B’Nargin unless they’re ready to win a hard fight.

Ashe says something Balthier can’t make out.

“As you wish!” Tricone practically sings. He lets Penelo go, Balthier wincing as gravity takes her hard to what remains of the floor. Her coughing is a rough honk, but he can see her curl onto her side, one hand grabbing at her dented throat.

“Majesty,” Tricorne mockingly jeers over Penelo’s hacking.

She’ll live. Breathing, eating, and talking are going to hurt for a while, but she will live.

Balthier is about to move to a closer pillar, preparing to aid Penelo as soon as the three move on Ashe. Help the girl out of harm’s way before figuring out how to best aid Ashe; with a grimace, he notices the way Tricorne is addressing her likely means she is, indeed, out there by herself. But the way the assailants suddenly shift defensively keeps him where he is. _What are they -_

The pressure changes, the room is too hot to breathe before the _crack_ of lightning. Lots and lots of lightning, bolts whipping into the room and scattering. Everyone hits the floor, screaming and covering their heads as chandeliers, crystals and whatever windows remain burst from the raw energy. Orange, burning glass rains down.

Balthier slaps at his exposed skin like everyone else in the room. Small red lines appear on his arms and likely the back of his neck, not that he can see it, where glass strikes him. Annoying, but the heat has faded substantially in the time it takes for for the shards fall.

 _Kill everyone and that includes them, eh, Your Highness?_ He grumpily shakes at the collar of his shirt, not wanting anything sharp to fall down the back of it. There’s a fresh explosive plum of dust and smoke, Balthier clearing his throat as he makes his way out from behind the pillar to get to Penelo.

The lightning had shot in but curved up instead of grounding; Ashe was likely aiming high to ensure she didn’t hit Penelo or potentially anyone still inside. It was a calculated risk, showing that Ashe has developed a taste for gambling from her throne.

While he doesn’t think she’s killed anyone outright, the magick has set several of the decorative drapes up the walls on fire, as well as what were once lavish curtains and tablecloths. The room isn’t a powderkeg, thankfully, but like most any overly wealthy person’s entertaining room, it is filled with entirely too much fabric.

He can scold her about it later, and for now breaks into a jog. The room has been shot into murky darkness after Ashe’s attack, but there is enough light so graciously provided by burning decorations and furniture for him to navigate by. So that’s nice.

Balthier rounds overturned and charred tables and downed chandeliers, leaping over whatever he can’t veer passed. Penelo’s yellow outfit can finally be seen between hunks of rubble in the flickering fire light. Still laying on her side, her body rises and falls with deep, open mouth gasps, one hand holding her throat, the other curled into a fist on the ground.

She sees him coming, her lone open eye catching the weak light and widening in recognition. Balthier lifts a hand in acknowledgement, and at first he thinks she’s doing the same, but he slows when he realizes she is holding her weakly lifted hand palm out. ‘Stop’.

No sooner does he heed her warning, the Rev rises like a ghoul out of the new batch of broken wall and marble. Balthier ducks behind a flipped catering cart. Being wrapped in black, Big Boy is a misshapen blob stomping towards the hole in the wall. Balthier can still see Penelo from where he’s at, preparing to dishonorable attack the man in the back for her sake if he has to.

Luckily, the mammoth isn’t interested in harassing Penelo anymore; stepping over her crumbled form, he growls and grumbles, flexing his tome-sized hands. He heads into the fresh batch of black smoke, outside.

Balthier wastes no time getting to Penelo.

“Easy now,” he tells her gently, helping her into a sitting position. She has a fresh layer of dust and soot on her, which certainly can’t be helping her breathing, but she seems otherwise alright. “Can you lift your head for me?”

Her head bobbles slightly but she manages a nod. One eye still scrunched closed, she looks at him with a twitching, closed-lip smile. She must be hurting quite a bit. _I’m so sorry._ “Y...ade it.”

Her rasp is heartbreaking. “Could never stand to disappoint a lady,” he tells her, but his smile is much weaker than hers. “Besides, how could I save the day if I weren’t here?” That pained smile gets a little bigger. “Come on then,” he says, putting one arm around her shoulders to get a hand on both of her arms while steadying her from behind. “Let’s get you up.”

As soon as she’s standing, her knees are a little wobbly. They’re probably all pins and needles from the lack of air. Her breath hitches, Balthier looking at her with concern. She is squinting ahead of them, and following her look, Balthier heaves a sigh of relief.

Vaan vaults over the debris, swords on his back and Penelo’s stave in hand, not registering Penelo’s state in the dark.

“Hey, are you okay - _Penelo?!”_

“She will be,” Balthier interjects. Vaan jerks his head up, only just realizing who is helping her.

“Wh - hey! What’re _you_ doin’ here? Where’s Fran?”

“Later. The people that did this are outside -” He nods at the opening, obscured by smoke. “- and they are after Ashe, who is _also_ outside.” Vaan’s eyes drop from the smoldering wall back to Penelo, conflicted. “ _Go_ ,” Balthier urges, this time more gently. “I’ll see her right. You go do the same for our Queen.”

Penelo reaches out, poking Vaan’s cheek. That must mean something to the two of them, as Vaan steps forward, dips his head down to give her a quick kiss to her forehead, then pushes her stave into her hand. He nods to Balthier.

“Later, then,” Vaan says, and disappears through the wall of smoke, pulling one of his swords from his back.

Balthier half carries Penelo, navigating the war zone of a ballroom. She stumbles badly once, her pained coughing nearly taking her down, but he keeps her up. She gives a gurgling apology that he shushes her for.

“You are simply allowing me to rescue you. Finally,” he comments easily. As if the chaos around them isn’t happening. “I was denied that last time, remember?”

He feels bad when she laughs, as it obviously hurts. Too charming for his own good, honestly.

The south side of the room is better lit, the huge double doors standing open to a hall with all its lights still glowing. As they reach it, the _Parivir_ finally decide to join them. It’s been barely a long handful of minutes, but Balthier gives their arrival a glare anyway. They begin to draw their weapons and Balthier is quick to snap at them.

“Get these people out of here!” he orders. He hates that his ‘Judge voice’ still comes to him so easily after all these years, but it expresses an authority people are quick to adhere to. “Before the fight comes back inside and no one can tell who the enemy is. Now.”

They hesitate but return their blades to their sheaths. Balthier moves himself and Penelo passed them into the hall, leaning her against a wall. He gently lifts her chin to get a look at her neck in the light, apologizing softly as she hisses. It’s still a bit malformed, small spider webbed hemorrhages crawling up her face from the pressure Tricorne had been applying. It is an ugly shade of red, and when Penelo lowers her chin, Balthier feels a new pang of sympathy; a blood vessel has burst in her eye.

“Penelo!”

The both look over; another small heard of soldiers are coming up the hall, led by young Kytes of all people. Even rolled back, the too large sleeves flop around his arms. Kytes comes to stand beside them, the bulk of the _Parivir_ continuing passed them to aid in the rescue effort.

“ _Balthier_?” he heaves in wonder. He’s breathing hard, his entire body moving with his gasps.

“Evening sprint?” Balthier greets lightly.

Kytes’ face drops from confused relief into somewhat pained. “I had to go pretty far to find anybody alive.”

Sobering news. These people sound equal parts thorough and brazen. An upsettingly effective combination. This wasn’t an assault of opportunity; these people had every intention of taking Ashe from here, from this party, tonight.

Balthier lays a hand on one of those tiny rising shoulders, redirecting Kytes to Penelo. “She needs to be taken to a healer, now. Do that.”

“You do? Oh _man_!” Kytes worriedly grabs at her hands, having a terrible and perfect view of her ruined throat. Eyes big, he nods too many times. “Yes, Ser.”

The corner of Balthier’s mouth pulls back at the title, but lives with it for Penelo’s sake.

Penelo, still breathing through her mouth, tries to shake her head, taps her chest. Balthier only helps her off the wall, steadying her with Kytes. “You can’t do it yourself, not if you can’t speak the incantation, now can you?” Defeated, Penelo leans more heavily on her crewmate. “Vaan will come collect you both soon.”

“C’mon,” Kytes grunts, mustering all his tiny manly strength. He coughs; the smoke is building up. “I’ll fix you up outside.”

A sweet gesture, but all three know it’s basically an empty one. Penelo needs more than what their battle medic can provide. If nothing else, Kytes should be able to keep her breathing through the smoke and dust.

Balthier watches as she is lead away, but only for a moment. When he faces around to head back into the ballroom, he throws his hands up in the air.

“ _Finally_!” he exclaims in exasperation, stalking towards her.

Fran walks towards him from the ballroom. Her hip-heavy gait is more pronounced as she sweeps across the wreckage in a hurry. As he comes to meet her in the highlight of the fires, he sees their weapons in her hands. “I am _so sorry_ , dearest; did all this fighting wake you from your _nap_?”

Fran clicks her tongue, her hair swaying as she cocks a hip. “I negotiated our fee.”

“Our fee?” he parrots, eyebrows high. He catches his gun as she tosses it to him. The comfort of the heavy steel in his hands is immediate and welcome.

“I tire of your charity,” is all she says, spinning on her heel.

His “hah” is dry as he keeps up with her long strides.

Balthier tilts his gun to catch whatever light he can as he confirms it’s loaded and the safety is on. Just until he’s sure he can’t kill either of them on accident if he trips. Not that the embarrassment wouldn’t do him in regardless.

The room is growing brighter as the fire catches onto more tables and chairs, but the growing haze burns his eyes and lungs.

“This is about Ashe,” he tells her before coughing.

“So nearly is the room.”

Not that she can see it, but he gives her a look. “ _Adorable_. Anything else?”

“Mm,” she hums. She pulls an arrow from her quiver, the flickering darkness and smoke having no effect on her ability to place it on her bow. “Ready then?” she rasps. Apparently, it _is_ effecting her throat.

Before he can reply, there is a sudden, painful illumination. Both of them shield their eyes, and though they can’t see for moment, they can hear what sounds like everyone outside crying out.

Fran recovers first and Balthier follows right behind her, the two of them bursting forth from the smoke. The plums roll back from their bodies, the foul air desperate to make way for them. The orange fire light backlights their forms, the embers still glowing along the wall’s charred maw in an aggressive halo of destruction.

A proper entrance, thank you very much.

“Stop looking cool, and _help_!”

If time allowed for it, Balthier may have popped off a wide shot in annoyance. As it stands, Vaan gets away with the barb for now, with Balthier making a note to send his hand up the back of Vaan’s head later.  

The patio grounds are lit up as if it were day. Four bodies have scrambled to get away from a familiar series of of lights, rods of raw magick reaching for the sky.

It’s not quite as Balthier remembers it, jutting up haphazardly about the makeshift arena instead of in a sharp line. His stomach sinks for a moment, unable to find Ashe hurrying away from the out of control spell - until he realizes she is in the center of the chaos, which could be the name of her autobiography, honestly.

Balthier isn’t the only one to realize it. The Rev has snaked past the Glow between him and Ashe, heading right for her. For whatever reason, Ashe isn’t doing something about that. Balthier curses, lowering his gun as he takes to the stairs. He doesn’t have a clear shot; if he fires from here, the scattered shot could hit Ashe.

Fran, never lacking precision, draws her bow.

Balthier lifts a hand in thanks, running for Ashe. Two arrows zip passed him, both striking Big Boy on the same side, one heavy  _thunk_  right after the other, spinning him away.

Right as he reaches her, Ashe falls backwards into his arms. Anyone watching could accuse them of planning such a display - the way she falls against him, letting him hold her close with one hand by the willow basket of her ribcage; how he never loses stride, scooping her up from gravity’s pull.

He can practically _hear_ the swell of violins and triumphant horns, that is how perfect the moment is.

“ _When_ will you ever learn to pace yourself?”  

If there’s anything more befitting a leading man, Balthier will need to see it himself. Riding that momentum, Balthier swings his right hand up, the mouth of his gun pressing into Big Boy’s chest, the leather creasing and giving beneath the metal.

The Rev hesitates for a moment, seemingly startled by Balthier’s sudden appearance, looking down to find the gun wedged into his jacket. The pirate grins, predatory.

“On behalf of the Queen -”

And pulls the trigger.

Too close for the scattershot to do its namesake, Big Boy takes the whole of the lead to his chest, letting out a girthy grunt. The force sends him both up and back, flung off his feet, leaving behind a spray of blood and bits of meat. He tumbles ass-over-head, disappearing over the lip of the cinderstone lining the curve of the race track.

With a confident flick of his wrist, Balthier flips his gun in his palm, pointing the muzzle skyward.  

Queen in hand, victory pose smoothly entered, Balthier looks down at Ashe, the most _perfect line_ in mind to be the royal, candied cherry on this dashing sundae - but his smirk vanishes at the sight of her.

Her eyelids are fluttering, and her thin body feels heavy and hot against him. “Your Highness?” he prompts carefully. She only mumbles in response.

That isn’t good. He sighs dramatically, holsters his gun at his hip. “This is why you never fill your dance card,” he chastises with a slightly forced levity. Her head lulls back, like she’s trying to look at him, and whatever mirth he’s pushing forward begins to recede as the area around her left shoulder can be seen.

Never one to be outdone apparently, Ashe’s neck looks worse off than Penelo’s, worryingly dark punctures bleeding a _lot_ for how small they are.

Both arms around her now, Balthier pulls her closer, drawing her up to get a better look at the wounds. The skin around them looks spongy, too soft, both concave and puckered. If there weren’t three of them and in the pattern they are, he’d think she’d been _bit_ by something.

“...althie..?” His name comes whispered and broken from her lips, so he musters whatever devil may care swagger he can. The show must go on.

“Ever at your service, Your Majesty,” he smirks. Ashe’s hands come weakly to his arms, like she can’t quite hold onto them. He’s not _that_ muscular, and he notes her weak grip. “What have you gone and done to yourself?”

Vaan yelps before she can give him an answer and Balthier looks towards the sound. Vaan hits the dirt, quickly rolling out of the way of Tricorne’s heavy strike, cracking the ground open instead of Vaan’s ribs.

Ashe’s magick, as terrifying as it is old, begins to dissipate, loose in the air.

This is not in their favor.

Without the magnetic pull of the geysers of light, the force of Tircorne’s attack fans the glimmer out in a puff. Embers of scalding light sent wafting towards the dry hay bales stacked around the race track and trees along it.

Deceptively, they delicately land… before bursting whatever they touch into flames.

“On second thought…” Balthier decides, holding Ashe closer to him. She’s not quite dead weight, but how close she is to lax is worrisome. “Can you walk?”

Held against his shoulder now, he feels the barest shake of her head. “Not...n my o… own.”

“How fortunate my arm is available to you then.” Carrying her bridal style might be faster, but it would mean he can’t protect them at the ready if necessary. Balthier takes her arm, loops it over his neck. The positioning pulls her head up, pressing her forehead against the nape of his neck. Ashe’s staggered breathing reaches into his tunic, and there’s nothing romantic about it.

“Blood...ll ruin your shir...” Was that a _joke_? Gods, perhaps she _is_ dying.

“We’ll put it on your tab,” he says, steering them back towards the estate. “Let’s go.”

Their female advisory cries out, and Vaan cheers, “Nice shot!” As if there’s any other kind from Fran.

They make it barely a handful of steps before she is completely unable to hold herself up. With a slow hiss, Balthier lowers them to the scorched and marked ground. They need to gain a _lot_ more distance.

On her back, Ashe tries to hold a quaking hand up to him, but her arm gives up. He catches her wrist, a glowing orange crystal tumbling out -

“Are you _serious_!”

She’s not supposed to have this. None of them are supposed to have any of these. Sure, he welshed on the deal, but he's a  _pirate_. Crossing his fingers behind his back is endearing; it's a breach of trust when she does it. If she weren’t already down for the count, he could throttle her. Frustrated and annoyed, he snatches up Belias’ Stone. He should have known that even _she_ couldn’t produce that kind of powerful display on her lonesome.

The Gigas rumbles in the back of Balthier’s mind, even with this short touch. He doesn't appreciate being held by anyone but his Queen. _The sentiment is mutual._  

“..Va...n.”

He doesn’t need any more explanation than that.

“Where do you think you’re goin’, creep!”

Tricorne and the woman are making their leave, Vaan chasing after them.

“The Marquis’ guests are leaving,” Balthier comments, suspicious of that development, and lifts his empty hand to his mouth.

Thumb and pointer finger at his lips, Balthier whistles for Vaan’s attention. Vaan looks over, not wanting to relent. Balthier lifts his hand, gives his closed fist a small shake, a gesture of intent, and then hurls the Esper stone way out ahead of Vaan. The rock skips off the stonework, a spark being struck as it pings off the ground. His never-apprentice makes a running leap, catching Belias out of the air.

He rolls into his landing, a burst of flames left behind as he keeps running. Fran is right behind him.

Wasting no time, Balthier calls out to her. She’s faster than all of them, having to skid to a stop at her name. He already fished _That_ out, and so lobs it her way, with a silent apology he has to do so at all. It’s all in his mind, but _That’s_ stone is grimy, sticking to his skin.

Fran snatches the filth spackled stone out of the air; the slimy feeling covering Balthier’s hand is pulled off like a series of popped suckers. _That_ is now her problem.

While he hasn’t seen the Big Boy for a minute, the other two fleeing likely indicates that he’s also retreating. Or dead. Preferably dead.

Shouting up on the deck announces masked and helmeted flamefighters arriving. Heavy hoses and small staves in hand for water casting. Their work is cut out for them, what with the smoldering hall and burning foliage.

“I doubt we need to tell them who made this mess,” Balthier smirks, as the flamefighters begin to douse the fires. “If you can make it worth my while...”

He looks down, primed to tell Ashe he’s open to suggestions, or since her tab has gotten so high to move her to a credit system (with flexible interest, depending on her payment methods), but his levity wilts at the sight of her.

Flushed, head lulled to the side, hair fallen over her eyes.

Still.

**###**

Vaan hits the ground with a yelp.

Having rolled too early, his right shoulder takes more of the impact than is good for it. He feels a sharp tearing sensation. But, he dodges a deathblow, so it’s a fair trade.

Because the jackass that hurt Penelo is playing for keeps, the impact strikes the ground forming a shockwave, kicking out all the remaining flakes of magick from Ashe’s pillars. The shimmery plum rolls out fast - anything the Quickening specks land on suddenly catching fire.

Hells, man.

Vaan’s a little slow getting up, his right arm struggling to take all his weight as he pushes out of his roll. Gritting his teeth as he gets back on his feet, he’s pretty sure his shoulder is dislocated. Which isn’t anything that hasn’t happened before, but it hurts a lot more than last time.

He’ll just try not to think about it for right now. Vaan shakes his arm out, a series of arrows arching over his head.

Fran drives the belt lady back, once, twice -

“ _Argh_!”

\- right into a third shot. Vaan isn’t sure if the arrow caught her between the belts or broke through them, but either way the arrow is sticking out of her ribs. Painfully, from the sound of it.

“Nice shot!”

“Daedra.” Khyle’s sword resettles with a _clink_ . He keeps it pointed at Vaan, a defensive stance. Whoever this tool is, he recognizes Vaan and Fran as threats at least. _Good_. “You alright to continue?”

‘Daedra’ hisses obscenities from beneath her veil. “ _No_ , I’m not, you _utter_ waste stain!” She grabs at the arrow jutting out of her ribs, bracing it with one hand and snapping off the shaft with the other.

She’s, uh… strong.

“An’ who knows where Bilvy is.” Vaan only caught the tail end of it, when Balthier sent the wide dude sailing over the barrier - the Hells kind of gun is that anyway? “I stuck her,” Daedra grunts. Vaan’s knuckles crack as his grip on his sword strengthens. “She ain’t goin’ anywheres.”

Khyle tips his head, lifting his sword in preparation to dip. “Sorry, new friend!” he calls to Vaan, giving an obnoxious bow. “We’ll be back to escort the Queen another day.” Lifting his head just enough for Vaan to make out white teeth between the black hat and black feathers, he grins, “Soon. I promise.”

Vaan grits his teeth. Obviously, he is going to chase them but he’s going to have to do it down a weapon. His right arm is shot for the time being, so he sets his left sword on his back as Daedra flees first. She stumbles backwards before running, just as Vaan transfers the sword from his bad arm to his good one. Even that simple movement has his shoulder throbbing, so running is going to _suck_.

“Where do you think you’re goin’, creep!”

But run he does. Khyle dashes off the moment Vaan kicks off the ground. Pumping his arms for speed sends pulses of white hot pain across his shoulders, down his back, up his neck. _Can’t let them leave ...!_

The sharp, clear sound of Balthier’s whistle catches Vaan’s attention. Vaan chances a look, _very_ against relenting the chase. Balthier has a fist raised, giving it a small shake. Vaan reads the gesture for what it is, wondering what the Hells he could be throwing him right now, just before Balthier launches the mystery item.

It gives a bright spark as it hopscotches off the ground, Balthier aiming wide and out ahead of Vaan. Unwilling to lose momentum, Vaan leaps, realizing what it is right before he snatches it -

 _' Sand Child this pact befalls. '_ The voice is heard as much as felt, jumping flames across the inside of his skull. ‘  _Protect this daughter of Raithwall’s. Swear unto me this life for hers - only then my powers are yours. ’_

 _All day, everyday._ However informal, it’s good enough for Belias. A warmth surges through Vaan, different from the tingling static Adrammelech had trumpeted up his bones - likewise, has a lot more body than the stuffy and heavy pulse of Zeromus.

It all happens in a fraction of a second, the hot energy dispersing with a burst of flames as Vaan rolls into his landing, springing back onto his feet and leaving the fire behind. He’s already faster, the pain of his arm no longer there.

“Fran!”

Balthier’s shout doesn’t slow Vaan down. The blessing of an Esper is incredible. Devastating.

And he cannot _wait_ to demonstrate that on his ‘new friend.’

**###**

Fran swipes the filthy stone out of the air.

She knows what it is beforehand, having watched Balthier chuck a glowing orange rock to Vaan. Fire spilling from his feet as he lands, it is clear which Esper has offered aid to the impulsive pirate. Supposedly, they had all agreed to surrender their Stones. Basch had burdened himself with hiding them away. Fran has always privately assumed Ashe would not relent her birthright, and of course, Balthier held onto the last of Dr Cid’s dream.

She has never asked. His reasons deserve to be his own.

Chaos had sung to her on the wind; Cuchulainn, though covered in filth, had intentions pure. Dark scions each of them are, but as a being that also sought something better than what she had been saddled with, Fran’s near poetic exemplum similarity called to _them_. They had offered themselves and their blessings for little in return.

This is clearly different.

Famfrit does not speak. Instead it offers its pact from within its jug; sloshing water echos about her skull, the faintest sound of submerged moaning, drowning screams from just beneath the surface. It is an empty, lost, hollow feeling.

She will think upon it another time, but Fran briefly wonders how miserable this damp din had felt to Balthier, when he bound himself to Dr Cid’s treasure. Is this why Dr Cid spoke so often to Venat? To drown out the haunting, lapping waves?

Balthier deserved better. Though she is like to never know them, she believes all of Cid’s children did.

Unsure of what Famfrit’s conditions are, Fran sharply twists around on her stiletto heel to follow after Vaan. As she turns away from Balthier, the sensation of a rising tide rolls in. Dark water fills more of her mind, a sticky residue left by the softly gliding waves. The imagery is distracting as she vaults over the barrier, onto the track.

Physically, her skin itches, imaginary sediment speckles from the water drift over her. It is uncomfortable, and for a moment Fran has to strain to hear over the watery dread. The water is impure, but Famfrit will see to it she will not know thirst. Fran’s innate is wind - the rocking of sea surf now inside is strange, making her feel heavy.

Yet, most importantly, Fran does not feel _slow_ \- a rushing surge carrying her far as she dives out of the way of Bilvy’s swing.

Down but not out it seems, the Rev had been lying in wait to thwart any following of his comrades’ escape. The arrows she had struck him with stick out of the meat of his collar bone. His massive hands are linked together, brought down from above his head. The paved way cracks like clay under the force of his joined fists.

Fran lands easily; even without an Esper, he’s too slow to a catch a Viera like that. Still, she isn’t far enough away to reasonably use her bow, opting instead to ‘settle’ for her claws and heels.

As Bilvy pulls his first from the crater, Fran can see where Balthier has shot him. The gunpowder flash burnt his coat, the leather singed and curled back. Burned the hairs on his chest, as well; the mane of his torso has fallen off in patches. Skin is mangled, the spread shot chewing it to bloody ribbons, pink elastic strands still clinging to his body. They flap against his body as he hefts himself back up.

Unpleasant.

Rev hide is not as thick as Seeq, nor as hardened as a Bangaa’s, but it is still very tough. If Fran means to gore him, she will need him to hold still for a moment.

Her nails drag across the flat masonry as she pulls her arms in to push herself up. Obviously she has the advantage of speed, but all Bilvy would need is a single lucky hit, or connect a hand to her throat in a wild swing to make the advantage all his.

“Never seen a bunny fly,” he grunts. Fran’s only response is to rake her hair back.

Squaring his shoulders bolsters his size. It is a failed attempt at intimidating her, but puffing out his chest pulls the blast-torn coat back. Exposing more of his damaged chest - and above the seeping wound, Fran spies a… _Medallion?_ A flat, wide disc, shiny with blood and firelight. She does not stare at it, flicking her eyes up to his mask.

He cocks his head. Fran’s ears twitch at the sound as well; the clang of blades. Vaan has caught up with at least one of the others. Vaan had best not use the flames awakened to him. If he calls Belias here -

A pressure drops unto the track like a massive brick slab, the Gigas coming to stand above the woodline.

Her annoyed growl is low in her throat.

A blast of hot air rolls across them fast, staggering both she and Bilvy. The track is bathed in a violent vermilion, the calefaction temperature causing the air to spasm. Unwilling to waste the opportunity, Fran transitions her stumble to a sprint, and leaps at the still recovering Rev.

Just before she reaches him, Belias is gone. Vaan, apparently realizing his mistake, has called back the Esper. Her eyes are shocked by the sudden lack of light, so she only feels her strike connect instead of witnessing it. His gnarled chest has some give; her nails sink into the bloody flesh, into the spasming muscle beneath.

The jagged gash is even more soft than expected, there is hardly any resistance. Fran’s hand is wet with warm blood as her fingertips hit the ruined meat. Her claws are angled towards a point, steepled and stuck in the gunshot wound. With a pained roar, Bilvy grabs at her buried wrist, anchors her - Fran grits her teeth, bracing for the counterattack - and swings his other fist.

A retaliatory haymaker strikes her right upside her head, replacing the vision she’s just regained with broken stars.

Yet, Bilvy is the one that screams; letting out another guttural, prolonged cry of pain as the talons embedded inside him clench in reflex to his attack. Frantically, heaving thick, jarring whimpers, he grabs at her shoulders, both her arms and tangled hair in his incredible, tightening hold.

The suffocating heat is suddenly pushed back by cold images behind her eyes. Wide open water, no land in sight, the sky a threatening black.

Fran growls through clenched teeth. Famfrit wants to haggle _now_? But Bilvy’s paws are massive, as is the pressure he is exerting. He is forcing her arms _into her body_. Her elbows are beginning to dig between her ribs; her ribs in turn straining to keep their shape.

Hopelessness.

Upon immediate reflection, _now_ would actually be preferable. Otherwise, she is going to have to devise a plan for _after_ her chest concaves. Just as her joints are about to give - The sinking feeling recedes; the itch under her skin is rinsed away; the chill of the black sea now a cool comfort. Sudden absence of pain and pressure. Strength and vitality surge through her. Just in time; Bilvy uses the disproportionate length of his arms to shove her back. Her stuck nails are plucked from his chest in a slick _poppop pop_ , as he is roughly hurling her away from him. With enough mighty force to stumble himself in the process.

Fran realizes, distantly, in mid-air, such is Famfrit's pact: accepting an aimless current, the vast and unpredictable flow of life - _that_ is what the Dark Cloud asks.

She lands badly, and with a splash, but even the violent roll that sends her limbs twisting is barely felt. She allows the cinderblock wall to halt her, taking the extreme and sudden stop full on, a wet mark on the stone. Let him think he has done her in.

It works. His breathing is pained and sawtooth, a whimper in his wheezes as he flees.

His chest is all a mess. Fran could not be sure it is enough to die from outright, but without treatment it will easily grow infected, and she wants that to burn with rot. She pushes herself up slowly, wincing at the unpleasant feeling of her ribs sliding back into place.

Fran swipes across her eyes, _Libra_ tinting her vision green, allowing her clear sight into the dark. Bilvy drags himself over a banister, towards the eastern forest. He can go for now. Panting, Fran sits back, looking down at her unbloodied hand, and the medallion clutched tightly between her long fingers.

The ghastly misdirection worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies are useless, but please take this one anyway: I am _so so so so so so so_ for the wait! When I said I expected a speedy update, I meant it; I actually had all of Balthier written out before the last upload, so I truly thought the next bit would fly by. I have a bad voice for Fran, her section really tripped me up. And then Resident Evil 2 came out and that's been my life for weeks.  
>  I make no promises for the speed on the next installment, but there won't be a part from Fran's perspective so hopefully that does the work flow a favor! o7  
> The easter egg this time is weak, but it's Bilvy's line about 'flying bunnies', which are the feol viera from Revenant Wings!


	8. fever o3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Hyperthermia**  
>  **noun:** an abnormally high fever; a person's body produces or absorbs more heat than it dissipates, typically due to their surroundings.

**FEVER  
3/3**

 

When Ashe wakes, she isn’t clear on where she is.

Or what year it is. And her throat is full of broken glass. Her eyes feel angry and dry, bloodshot and bleary; the sunlight filling the room is soft, muffled by the fogged glass of the tall windows streaked across the wall. It casts the room in a gentle peach, but still Ashe blinks tightly several times to ease her vision. Her dry tongue presses to the inside of her even more dry left cheek, finding dull sensation. She can feel the pressure, but there is no specific feeling. Nearly numb.

A sensitivity not limited to her mouth. She can feel her awkward grimace, the left side not pulling up as far as she is used to. Her left arm is likewise unenthusiastic in participation, and so she rolls onto her right to awkwardly lift herself up.

 _Hot_ . Hot, sticky, her hair in sweaty clumps and stuck against her neck and shoulders. She feels so _gross_ , heaving a disgusted sigh. Clad in only a thin gown and a sheet, Ashe has enough of her senses to wonder how bad her fever is. A high fever will leave the mistaken feeling of a chill, the air cooler than the skin; an especially high fever can be felt through that.

The memories of the… previous? evening? How long as she been out anyway? In whatever case, the party, its crashers, and the fight that ensued comes back to her in jagged, burning pieces. So bizarre and wild, it is easy to wonder if that all somehow was a result of this off-sickness, a literal fever dream.

The door _clicks_ open, Ashe giving a soft scoff of surprise as a healer enters. Robes of creme and blue, she must still be in Bhujerba. His head is bowed, only lifting it as he steps in, eyes widening in pleasant surprise.

“Your Majesty,” he smiles in relief. He comes no further in. “I will alert the Marquis to your room -”

“No,” she immediately rasps. The healer blinks.“You will find me Al-Cid Margrace,” Ashe instructs. “Tell him he is to bring Vaan."

He nods too many times, eyes kept down as a gesture of respect. "Yes, Your Majesty."

And... She attempts to clear her throat again. It is a parched cough instead. “...I would have water.”

“Right away, Your Majesty.”

**###**

Balthier kills time in the hanger.

The one specifically put up for the indefinitely canceled race. The gamblers, investors, and racers had sent ahead their hoverbikes. Here, their prized machines have been unpacked and carefully stored. Two dozen hoverbikes, exquisite and maintained, parked carefully in four rows of six for easing touring.

The Marquis’ forces have placed a hard stop on any coming and going while the damage is assessed and heads are counted. Of course, he and Fran could get out of the citystate if they really wanted to - and while neither of them are thrilled about the travel ban, they are content to wait for updates.

Fran grumbled some truly vile things about Humes when he tried to wake her, so Balthier left her to her sleepy obscenities, meeting Penelo and Kytes for a suspiciously generous breakfast. A casual plea from the Marquis not to leave. Kytes inhaled his weight in pancakes and whipped cream, while Penelo carefully picked at a plate of soft eggs.

Her neck had been wrapped in thick gauze. Her voice held a rasp but hadn’t been a total whisper, yet the sight of her still pulled at his heartstrings. Angry red patches of her skin were glossy with a salve to ease the burned flesh; her right eye marred with a bloody blotch of a burst vessel.

They departed to reunite with Tomaj, who had left to fill Filo in on the events, and Balthier is left with idle hands.

Only interested in very specific company, he sought to be out of sight. So, here he is, touring about the sealed hanger. ‘Sealed.’ He could have picked his way in without having had a morning coffee.

Or, he _had_ been touring them, having stopped before the stall labeled _‘Margrace’_ housing the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen in his life (after himself).

Balthier runs his hand along the thin vented glossair hull. And it should have been expected, but Al-Cid didn’t just bring _any_ hoverbike to this race: a restored 668 Lesalia Triumph. Fran would have a conniption.

He doesn’t see many Lesalia models this side of Zarghidas and certainly not one this old, but there’s no mistaking the year. Thin vents were in fashion as recently as six-ninety-five, but six-sixty-eight was the last year swallows with tri-pronged rear fenders were released, all later models favoring the dual-pronged ‘dovetail’ style to hide the sprockets and swing arms on either side of the rider.

It has triangular calipers, a limited style run for the Triumphs. It is chrome trimmed and polished, the paint job a glittery midnight blue, and Balthier could just _ache_ over utterly beautiful the swallow is.

Too beautiful to hate. It’s not its fault its owner has great taste in swallows. _And women_ , he thinks ruefully. Ashe, as well, is too beautiful to hate. Seeing her after all this time, even during the absolutely ridiculous chaos of last night, had stopped his thoughts. Even without the spontaneous need for heroics, his reaction would not have been any different.

Her appearance during their pursuit of the remaining auralith had been a total surprise, and about all Balthier had managed was a nod and a smirk, incredibly thankful that they didn’t have the time for anything else.

When they _did_ have time, he…

Balthier’s dark reflection grimaces.

Well, he would have liked to have sorted all of that in a timely fashion if she hadn’t tried to up and _die on him_. Literally. He had begun to regret honoring her request to pass Belias off to Vaan, as it impacted her fortitude and vitality.

Ashe is in some stage of recovery, however. Kytes had informed him Vaan’s absence at breakfast had been due to being summoned at an unappealing hour by Her Highness - with _Lord Margrace_. Spitefully, childishly, Balthier presses the pads of his fingers against the glossy finish to mar it. He smudges it just enough so as to not leave prints, but there are five clear blemishes. It’s superficial vandalism, easily removed. It does not make him feel any better.

Suddenly in dire need not to be left alone with his thoughts and with a mighty need to strike something, Balthier makes to quit the hanger. Surely Fran is up by now. Just a little something to pass the time, as Ashe admonishes Vaan and Al-Cid for their already weak efforts to come to her aid paling next to Balthier’s rescue.

Because anything else is too annoying to consider.

**###**

Vaan wipes the back of his hand under his chin.

“You think the _Marquis_ did this?”

He has his back to a window pane, his butt lean against the sil. Ashe is propped up by more pillows than Vaan has probably ever owned in his life, her hair twisted up in a perfect ball on the top of her head. She’s equal parts feverish and pale, and Vaan finally understands what it means for someone to be ‘clammy’. She is lookin’ _moist_. What must be an uncomfortable sheen of sweat is all over her. Her nightgown is even plastered to the rise of her breasts.

That’s not what keeps dragging his eyes down towards her chest, though. Crisp, thick white gauze is wrapped around her neck, as well as diagonally towards and under her armpit, and wound over her shoulder. It’s puffed out, a medicinal pad held against her collarbone. It seems like no matter how many times they redress the wounds, Vaan can see the dark dots underneath.

They’re still bleeding.

Ashe keeps her chin up, like she hadn’t been TKO’d last night. For as rough as she looks, it’s leagues better than how she’d been several hours ago. When he and Fran returned after he accidentally started her and she barely missed him with an arrow (“You were ready to shoot me in the face!” “I am always ready to shoot you in the face.”), Vaan felt some uncomfortable fear for Ashe.

Shame on him, he guesses. Now, she tilts her chin crisply towards the other side of her bed.

“ _I_ am not the one who thought so.”

Al-Cid, unbothered by her judgmental tone, shrugs. He’s completely relaxed into the chair, almost to the point of slouching. Shirt ironed and deliberately unlaced down to the waistband of too tight pants. His boots are shiny and pointed-toe, something Vaan would trip in and scuff up. Head tilted back and sunglasses on (what do nobles have against mornings, anyway?), he casually stirs a celery stick around his Bleeding Maria, a spicy Rogue Tomato and vodka drink.

No thanks. Vaan takes his alcohol straight.

“ _Thinks_ so,” he corrects, lazily turning to look at her.

“You cannot still be entertaining this idea,” Ashe balks.

“I can. So I am.”

She scoffs, Vaan wrinkling his nose. “Is this what you meant?” Vaan asks, both royals looking at him. “When you said the Marquis plays to win?”

“Aa,” Al-Cid exhales knowingly, smugly. “So you _did_ discuss it!”

Ashe scowls. “ _No_.” But as Vaan squints an eye at her, she chuffs, gaze casting away from him indignantly. “It could hardly be counted as a discussion.”

Al-Cid hums as he takes a drink. “Well, let us discuss, then.” He holds out his tall glass, Cindy taking it quickly and quietly - although with the hand that isn’t bandaged. Almost involuntarily, Vaan shrugs his sore right shoulder. The healers had done what they could, but healing magick has its limits. Ultimately, his shoulder had to be set, though mercifully, he’d still been bound to Belias when they yanked it out of its socket and shoved it back in.

Still hurt like a mother. Just not as much of a mother.

“We must start with the open secrets,” he says, clasping his hands loosely. “Dalmasca is at the heart of Ivalice. Where the tri-roads cross is the most prime of real estate. Symbolic in Raithwall's time; very,  _very_ lucrative in ours. The return of House B’nargin to power, is an enchanting and daring tale. Devoured by the masses, so captivating with its righteous revenge. Amongst the elite and purple birth, it is a more disagreeable development. A woken nightmare, if you will.”

“Politics ruin everything,” Vaan clarifies.

Both Al-Cid and Ashe’s mouths pull back in regal, demure grimaces. “Yes,” Al-Cid agrees, finding Vaan’s term unpleasant but refreshing. “This is why I like him,” he says to Ashe. “I called him genuine, if you recall.”

Vaan’s eyebrows and lips lift up in satisfaction, and Ashe blows out a sigh. He's pretty sure she agrees, but it's not what she wants to talk about, which is alright by Vaan. 

“Many, many of our peers fell in line with Vayne’s campaign. To be plain, the late King Raminas is not mourned beyond his borders.” Vaan looks immediately at Ashe. She glares at the half-full pitcher of water set on the cart at the end of her bed. “An agreeable enough man, but a mild king. He ruled little, deferring most choice to his council after Queen Loraline passed.”

“Was that your mom?” Vaan asks.

Ashe shakes her head before his question is finished. “No. My mother was his third wife. Loraline was my father’s first. Neither of his following brides, including my mother, were crowned.” He watches her for any kind of negative emotion, but if that bothers her, it can’t be much; she delivers the fact almost conversationally.

There’s rich people, and then there’s royalty. As much time as he spends with Ashe, they’re not a group he’s ever going to understand. Rubbing at an eye with the palm of his hand, “My folks liked your dad.” He thinks. “A man of the people, not the court.”

“And this was the problem,” Al-Cid nods, lifting a hand to punctuate. “Vayne applied a sundry of tactics in his vye for power, yet he needn’t apply much pressure. The difference between an empire and a kingdom is the romance and whimsy about the royal cities.” Ashe tuts in disagreement, but Al-Cid talks over her. “Many laymen think of their bread tax and resent the parties in the castle, but there is much more to it than that. Hundreds of millions of gil passing about only a few pairs of hands,” and Vaan wheezes at the numbers. “Like dragons hoarding their treasure, they want more. Raminas had more of a mind for spending money than gaining it.”

“ _Wow_ ,” Vaan spits, aggressively sarcastic. “ _What a jerk_.”

“It is a poor trait, for a ruler.”

He snaps his head to look over at Ashe. Her tone is too close to even, an attempt to keep any emotion from it. He can see it, though, in the line of her mouth. Resignation. “My father was generous, but detrimentally. His frequent tax breaks undercut the treasury, to the point where roads and outlier villages were not receiving proper financial aid. Developed areas, Rabanastre or Tadar, took the lion’s share, while Giza farms and the Nebra fishing villages were dolled scraps.”

“Imports and exports.” Al-Cid holds out his hand, Cindy returns his drink. “Any country relies on trade and tariffs. One cannot expect a strong harvest if the farmers are not provided quality tools and material. The ripples had only just begun to show, tough projections exhibited perhaps irreparable damage by the time your Queen’s grandchildren are crowned.”

Vaan’s eyes never leave Ashe. “Doesn’t mean he deserved to get stabbed.”

Her eyes switch to him and then quickly away, the barest nod of agreement, and he hates that she needed to hear that. Bet she never does.

Al-Cid gives a non-committal, “Eh,” with a shrug conveying mild disagreement.

Ashe’s shoulders square back sharply, a muscle in her jaw jumping at the effort she’s exerting not to tear in him. Vaan could sell tickets to see it, but decides to change the subject.

“What’s that gotta do with Ondore and last night?” he asks, rotating his wrapped shoulder. “Bombing his house cost him serious dosh.”

“I agree,” Ashe adds, icily. “His personal relationship with my family aside, he would not endanger his own. Renata may still lose her leg.” Vaan winces. One of the Marquis’ grandchildren. A chunk of wall hit her knee going however many miles an hour. She’s already had one surgery, and she’s not the only Ondore to get hurt last night. “There are some costs that come too high.”

“It is not always about money,” Al-Cid warns airily.

"Sure sounds like it." Vaan can had wanted to ask what else rich people care about, but manages to decide on his own that would be stupid.

"One could suppose at this level we play at, monetary motivations are likely about. However," Al-Cid adjusts his sunglasses and adds, “That is generally speaking. Here, we speak specifically. There are three points to be considered. 

“Firstly!” He lifts his hand in a dramatic gesture, celery stock swirling around the glass. “Halim Ondore has never truly encouraged your return the throne. Rather preferring Dalmasca fall to democracy. Your abdication would be his grandest delight.”

Vaan eyebrows have shot up to his hairline. Scratching at his chin (he hasn't had a chance to shave yet), he looks over at Ashe: her glare is hard fixed just passed Al-Cid’s head, red high on her cheeks. This is the first he’s hearing about any of that, the democracy stuff. The Marquis being weird about Ashe revealing herself to be alive isn't really news by itself. He'd had a funky sadness about him at Ashe's coronation, Vaan can recall. He hadn't gotten a real political vibe from it, though - Vaan had always gotten the impression Ondore thought a happier, healthier life could be had outside the palace walls, and would rather Ashe forfeit the crown for her own sake. 

That's not who Ashe is, though.  

Al-Cid crosses his legs. “Second! The attack had been thorough, puncticulous. In fact, let us be honest and dry amongst friends -” He lowers his sunglasses, giving each of them a sly look, “- the bulk of collateral damages had been inflicted not by the assailants, eh?” Vaan and his queen give uncomfortable noises from the backs of their throats. With a smirk, Al-Cid pushes his sunglasses back up his nose. “They came for the outer wall, non-loadbearing, and the track had not yet been revealed and so the observation patio was unoccupied. Recall, this is where we came to meet?”

It was empty. There’d been no one but himself when Ashe had found Vaan. Not even guards… Running his tongue along his teeth, he looks over at Ashe, sees her eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Attacking me would not chase me away,” she challenges. “Halim would know that such retreat is not what I would want.”

Vaan nods along, but his head bobs slows as Al-Cid waggles his glasses lazily.

“Ah, yet they were meant to _abduct_ you, yes? By your own admission,” he counters. Her lips purse. “They paralyzed you in order to haul you away. Any going you did would have had little to do with what you want, My Lady. Stick you with a needle, render you helpless, have your pirates whisk you off safely to…” He shrugs, languid.

“Avadyamoor,” Ashe advises.

A dismissive, muffled, “Wherever,” comes from behind the glass tipped back against his mouth.

Ashe gives a disappointed sigh. “You have learned nothing about this place?” He hums in the negative, having not swallowed his mouthful. She looks to Vaan. “Never in your travels?”

“Uh-uh.” Vaan palms at his shoulder. “Most castles I ever heard of were in Nabradia, so.”

“‘Castle’ is not necessarily a palace, but this is neither here nor there,” Al-Cid advises.

“Then what’s a castle?”

“It has not yet been half a day, My Lady,” he says to Ashe, ignoring Vaan. “Whatever this place is, however fictitious, my birds will find it.”

Her nod isn’t confidant. Vaan sniffs. “What’s your third point?”

“Ah! Yes.” Al-Cid gestures wildly - to Vaan.

“ _Y tres_ : you, our sky urchins.”

A beat.

Vaan and Ashe exchange hard looks, Vaan’s confusion more prominent, those Ashe’s is very clear.

“Man, _what_?”

Before Al-Cid finishes lifting his glass, Cindy is quick with a replacement. Oh, that’s what she was doing back there, fixing him another drink. Fresh alcohol in hand, toasts to them. Vaan shifts uncomfortably as Ashe looks back to him. Al-Cid is leaving them in suspense on purpose because he’s annoying like that, but Vaan doesn’t like Ashe thinking he had _anything_ to do with last night.

A soft smack of his lips, and Al-Cid decides to finish his thought. “The guest list, of course. A private, limited stack of names. Even the secondhand invitees - the ‘pluses’ - had been vetted. No one, nothing made its way to that party without first crossing the Marquis’ desk. Including you, my friend.”

Vaan shakes his head. “No, that was ‘cause of Penelo.”

“Is it?” His eyebrows are cocked above the rims of his sunglasses. _Yes_ , but something about that delivery gives Vaan enough doubt to sit on his answer. “Do you know if this unconventional party existed _before_ the little dancer met him? Or, did the Marquis Ondore do what he is most known for: taking advantage of an opportunity?”

Vaan is frowning in consideration, but Ashe is having none of it. 

“Absolutely not. That is an absurd claim.” Even recovering from poison and nearly swallowed by pillows, she’s stubborn and talks with a lot of conviction. “What are you are suggesting circumstantially - _at best_ \- aligns with the facts of the situation. Yes, Penelo ran along Halim, yet it had been her idea for us to reunite.”

“That,” Vaan states, pointing at Ashe in agreement. “Penelo wanted to go on a Hunt. The party thing is whatever for us.” But even as he says that, he feels unsure. Vaan wasn’t all that interested in the race, it was the _hunt_ afterwards that he had been stoked over. Penelo _did_ want to go somewhere with Ashe, but no… She _hadn’t_ said anything about a hunt... until…

Realizing his stare has fallen in thought, he lifts his eyes back up. Al-Cid in watching him with his head at a reclined tilt, like he’s waiting for it to hit Vaan.

Ashe watches Vaan. “What is it?”

He rubs the back of his neck, feeling weird and guilty.

“...The Hunt wasn’t Penelo’s idea, actually…” Her lips part as she scoffs in surprise. “If we showed up for the party, competed in the race, we’d get the details on a Hunt, and we could all go together for her birthday.”

He looks away from Ashe, uselessly trying to duck her packed glare. Her voice is stiff, low.

“Who offered that.”

It’s not even phrased as a question. Al-Cid calls that out. “Hardly worth saying, but, yes, sky urchin, confirm for us what we know: who made such a deal?”

Vaan gives a small, uncomfortable groan. His hand drops heavily to the sil he’s seated against.

“The Marquis,” he mutters.

Vaan watches as Ashe deflates. No, she doesn’t sway and sink like him or Penelo would. But she’s always gotten across a lot with very little. Her puffed out chest recedes, her squared shoulders begin to round; it’s not pronounced, but she begins to curl in on herself when she feels defeat. Her eyes fall to her hands. Could _another_ person have set her up? He looks away from her.

It breaks his heart.

Why is it the only people really on her side aren’t the ones that are around her more? It has nothing to do with Ashe, his and Penelo adventuring out in the wide world. Of course it’d be great if she could travel, too. She only saved the world, twice. It’s a crime she can’t go out and experience all the places she killed to protect…

Wait.

“We wouldn’t take Ashe and run.”

They look at him. Vaan looks from a crestfallen Ashe to Al-Cid. “Penelo and me. My crew. We wouldn’t do that,” he repeats, firmly. “We _didn’t_ do that. We’ll throwdown for her like _that_ ,” he snaps his fingers. Looking back to Ashe, “And the Marquis ain't a stranger to it.”

It’s subtle, the roll down Ashe’s throat as she swallows, but there’s a lift in her body language. Hopeful.

“Not _you_ , specially,” Al-Cid tuts. He pulls the celery stock from the Bleeding Maria, careful to tap it on the rim of the glass without sending droplets anywhere. “The little dancer procured the more seasoned pirates.” Vaan feels his eyes get big. “With the history of sweeping Our Lady Dalmasca away.”

 _“What are_ you _doin’ here? Where’s Fran?”_

“From Bhujerba, as I am to understand it?”

The Dalmascans say nothing as Al-Cid lifts the garnish to his mouth.

The crunch of the celery being bitten is especially loud.

**###**

Balthier’s head is tipped back, staring at the sky.

The sky stares back. Big, blue, empty. Not unusual for the Skycity, as it tends to have a lower, lingering cloud presence of some sort. Today, the floating land looks like islands bobbing in a fluffed up sea, made of pristine and bulbous clouds. It’s picturesque.

And untrustworthy. The south side of the main residence is lovely and clean, but the other end is in blackened tatters. An irritating poetry for all the ugly things just out of sight. Mayhaps it’s great poetry and Balthier’s mood is too sour to appreciate it.

Once again, he’s waiting on Fran. His neck beginning to crick, he sets his head right, eyes making a casual glance about for his partner. She had indeed been awake when he’d sought her out, but had sent him here with a caution that is rather cryptic for her. Of course, her every wish is his command, so here he waits, but there is already too much about this situation he doesn’t like. He can usually appreciate a good bit of mystery, but for now could do without unnecessary coverts.

Such dramatics are _his_ forte, after all.

Thankfully, unlike last night, she doesn’t leave him waiting for long. The scrap of her two-heeled stilettos on the washed masonry announces her arrival and Balthier reclines against the dense banister, weight on his elbows and hands dangling.

She sways her way to him, fitted in the mix-matched ensemble she’s taken to recently. Her open-bellied bodice is still filled in with swishing voile, her black sleeves having been abandoned, leaving her collarbone and shoulders bare. Fastened to her filigree bodice, creme crape sleeves have lacy and elastic frill bunched up just above her elbows to keep from drooping too far down her arms.

His stare fixes on her left hand. Her bracers come and go, today they’re absent - but what has his attention is what _is_ there, something wrapped in a light cloth held in her long fingers. Eyebrow cocked, he nods at the parcel.

“Is that payment from the Marquis?” Her lids lower slightly in what is a flat stare from her. His lips quirk. “What have you got, dearest?”

Lifting whatever it is with one hand, she begins to the bundled. The folded back cloth reveals two items: a thin piece of lead he recognizes as a trap needle, one end blackened with something; and a thick bronze disc. Both leave behind stains against the twill. Balthier can’t identify the greyish-purple from the dark end of the needle, but the smears on the intricate slab are known all too well: blood.

Gross. As he flicks her a curious glance, he pulls his gloves from his loose-looped belt. A combination of hide soaked in a vat with nylon, the leather is dyed a deep green, near indistinguishable from black without sunlight, and thick enough to keep his hands dry while still thin enough to let him pick a lock. It hasn’t quite been cool enough to leave them on, but he’d rather not leave them folded in one of his satchels. So, he tends to keep draped over the valley of either belt.

Fran holds out the bundle to him, angling the discus towards him. It is half an inch thick, and he whistles at the weight as he takes it from the cloth. She retracts her hand before he can take the needle.

“These I recovered last night,” she tells him. The bronze round is carved out into a series of baroque loops and elaborate knot work. It is clearly a deliberate pattern but not one he recognizes, as he turns it around in his hands. “I pulled this medallion from the Rev.”

 _A medallion, eh?_ Not something Balthier would have guessed given its size, but it could look rightfully proportioned on a Rev’s chest.

“The blood is his, then,” and he doesn’t make it a question as she doesn’t appear harmed, and he would not expect her to be.

A slight lift of her tone implying amusement. “Not by _my_ doing,” she says. “A blunderbust to the chest is not easily walked off.”

“He seemed to be getting around well enough,” he comments in distaste, and then sighs. “Alright, Fran, I will yield: what is this?”

Free hand on her hip, her hair sways with a shake of her head. “A pendant, an emblem. An old one at that.” He’d have to agree. Pendants aren’t made in this diameter or thickness anymore. At these dimensions and with such flourish, it strikes Balthier as more of a family crest than a fashion statement. Certainly no House he’s ever seen, the bronze carved into a busy, ornate but symmetrical series of loops. It lacks of the hallmarks of more commonly found of noble insignia. As well, its lack of gems and more precious metals implies a sentimental value over a monetary one.

It does look like _something_ , though. As Fran said, some emblem or another. A brief mental scroll of guilds coming to mind don’t match it, but… Yes. Something like that.

“A guild crest?” he asks, just to confirm.

“Aye. So I think.”

He nods at the needle, “And that?”

It’s a shallow breath, but for his Viera partner, it’s practically a heaved sigh. Uh oh. “This,” and she holds it out, “Is what Amalia was struck with.” He tilts his head in understanding.

The ‘bite marks’. That residue on the cloth would be the ‘venom’, then. Trap needles would explain the odd pattern her wounds are in. "Precarious stuff?"

Fran nods. “That, and worse.”

He tuts, a lip curling back. It can never be simple, can it? “Go on then.”

“The Wardens of the Wood rarely have dry arrows, most are dipped. In each quiver is one bolt with a purple stain, a salve equal parts dangerous to make and use.” Carefully, she pulls back more of the stained textile to show the needle further, and Balthier now realizes she has been very careful to not touch it since revealing it. “Made from the mellifluent of nightshade and alarune, t’is a neurotoxin.”

“I see.”

“You do not,” she shakes her head just barely. Balthier can feel his stare becoming weary; Not Simple is sliding towards Complicated a bit fast here. “So viperous this ichorous, it is painted on in a single swipe. A lone streak of lavender.” Fran tilts it to expose more of the needle to the sunlight, “These are all but black with it. It paralyzes the target, locking muscle and nerves. Amalia took _three_ saturated needles.” The thin little stick becomes more threatening as it idles in its fabric cradle. “So saturated, it weeps the toxin even now.”

“...How close?” The question is incomplete. He’d rather not ask the whole of it. Fran knows what he’s asking anyway.

She hides the needle with a corner of the cloth. “Minutes.”

With every exhale, Ashe's chest muscles would lock further down until they could not accommodate her lungs expanding as she breathed. She would have suffocated without medical assistance, smothered by her own body as her nervous system is suppressed.

And it would have happened in his arms.

The breeze is crisp, a chill in the fall daylight. Yet, Balthier is uncomfortably warm, a thick sweat building up in the hollow of his back. Perilous situations, touch and go across thin ice - Balthier is hardly an adrenaline seeker, but he’s as much a fan of thrills as any proper adventurer. He doubts many fantastical stories can be told with a leading man that shies away from the heart-racing moments.

The asterisks of this being, while he has experienced fear, he hasn’t ever really been in fear for his _life_. Yes, he’s been in some particularly deadly settings, and yes, he hasn’t always known how he would get out of it.

 _However_. Balthier has always, always, _always_ believed he _will_ get out of it.

He has to. Survival is just as mental as it is physical. Time and energy cannot be spent entertaining the idea that dying is a real option, not at any point. Not even afterwards, conceivably. Fran shares a similar mentality: better to have affairs to live for rather than die for. He can expect to her to survive anything because _she_ expects to survive anything.

Ashe is ready to die, if the cause is righteous enough for her. Or at least, she had been, back during the height of the war. For such a decorous royal, Ashe has a fierce passion to her, something vibrant and virile, something that can incite any emotion she feels… Like spite and pride and some awful combination of both, manufactured specifically to stress Balthier out.

“Who else has seen these?” he asks, giving the medallion a final long, considering look.

“None, beyond Vaan,” she says. “Though he knew not what he was looking at, I suspect. Unfortunately, nor do I.” Her weight shifts to her other leg. “This symbol is known and unknown to me.”

He turns it around in his hands. “You’ve come across it, but don’t recognize it.”

“As such.”

“‘As such’?” he echoes back, eyebrow raised.

“It need not be a mystery,” she tells him. His cocked brow drops down to give her a critical well-go-on-then look. “That is, would you not mind our asking.”

Who would he mind -

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Balthier scowls at her, holding out the pendant for her to return to the wrapping. “I have had it up to here with your uncalled for _shade_ ,” he warns as she takes back the enigmatic medallion. Her eyebrows lift slightly, minor amusement, but wraps the plate without complaint.

“She is awake,” Fran tells him as he begins removing his gloves.

Balthier’s expression glides into practiced nonchalance quickly, and he knows she saw it. “Best to check in on her between assassination attempts,” he comments cooly.

If he’s fooling anyone, it certainly isn’t Fran.

“We will pass these to Al-Cid as we do.”

His expression is cemented firmly in place. He won't give her the satisfaction of anything else.

**###**

Despite the comfort of freedom his helmet provides, Basch keeps his eyes off Larsa.

The young Emperor sits in the tall chair he is growing into far too quickly, fingers laced and tense, involuntarily flexing every few moments and betraying his anxiety.

“That is, currently, all we know upon the matter,” Zargabaath concludes. The table remains quiet, the only sound being the muted cracking of the leather binder as the Judge Magister closes the report.

“The Marquis’ council will keep us abreast?” Larsa asks, lips thin and brow creased.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Terrible,” Saraposa spits, her hands winding and fretting about the jeweled chain of her rosary. To her son, she sighs dramatically. “Thank Kiltia you had not gone, sweet boy.”

Larsa’s eyes linger on the closed folder before he looks at her, smile a bit tense. “Even where I to, it would seem it is not I they would want.”

The Dowager Empress doesn’t appear to like that answer, but returns her last son’s strained smile with one of her own. Her hand comes to rest tightly on his forearm, the pressure obvious as the sleeve sinks and creases around her narrow fingers.

Basch makes to rescue his lord. “The attackers' phrasing seemed quite specific.”

“Aye.” Surely Zargabaath noticed the tension on the other end of the table, but he appears unbothered by it. “Witnesses reported believing the accents to be North Valendian,” he advises, flipping the report back open. “No one spoke with certainty, however, and while we work to confirm this, t’would be bizarre any country beyond the Orient would seek to attack Dalmasca.”

“They did not attack Dalmasca,” Saraposa snaps. Her rosary clacks against the table for emphasis. “They came for  _her_. Called her wytch, that so she is.” If she does not wish to implicate herself, she is doing a tragic job of it.

“...Yes,” Zargabaath agrees slowly. “Only furthering the mystery; Dalmasca closing its borders and trade routes in effort to protect the Lady Ashe would cause irreparable damage to commerce traffic.”

A truth that cannot be overstated. Basch keeps his affirmations to himself; few are the trade routes that do not pass through Dalmasca. Tariffs and strong tolls had made the desert kingdom a prime and eclectic base for merchant barons to stake emporium there, printing money. So important are these mulberry roads that Raminas could not afford to close them, even when confirmed reports of assassination plans began to stack.

"It need not be a state of emergency," Larsa says, the room coming to look at him oddly. He shifts, though subtly, in his chair. "An agreement could be reached, I am sure, to aid Dalmasca."

The table sounds off immediately, a chorus of disjointed but equally emphatic 'absolutely not' pressing against the young emperor.

"You mustn't, darling," Saraposa insists, aghast.

The Senate members in attendance fortify behind her. "Archadia bends far backwards to accommodate Dalmasca as is," one tries to reason. "The desert land was ours, its situation at the tri-roads a great and prime treasure we have forfeited in efforts for the struck accordance of the non-aggression pact. T'is an unfavorable first move as the fresh head of House Solidor."

Larsa's eyes narrow, exasperated. "You cannot expect me to let Archadia condone such an attack by complicity?" The table is quiet. "What future of ours would such idling serve?"

"My Lord," Basch begins slowly, making a more empathetic attempt. "Kind efforts to the Queen and her country serves an enduring Archadia. But there must be efforts made that serve its people presently, as well."

Larsa Solidor is still, technically, only defacto emperor. The Empire has crafted a line to straddle both democratically elected powers and monarchy. Houses are voted into power, and tend to stay until the name is lost in lack of heirs, or if remaining members of a House are seen as unfit to replace whomever has passed. Vayne, having killed his elder brothers, became the acting emperor when he had Gramis poisoned, and died before the position could be voted on. So it slides to Larsa, who still now, three years later, rules in probation. The crippled Senate likely would rather have another House beyond Solidor, but with the war's legitimate toll taken and Vayne's underhanded, murderous ways, there is no family of the barest gentry station fit to take the role. 

That does not give Gramis' youngest son perfect immunity, however. Should he fall far enough in favor and popularity, he  _will_ be ousted. 

He must be still be careful yet. He knows that. “...For now...” Larsa begins, casting his eyes about the room, resigned and frustrated. “Let us be glad Queen Dalmasca has not lost her battle prowess in these times of peace.” He deliberately avoids looking at his mother as he speaks, her scowl at his well wishes purposefully ignored. “Our time adjourned.”

After a stiff goodbye, Basch and Larsa are finally left alone as a servant closes the door behind him.

Larsa sighs heavily, coming forward to lean over his clenched hands, now held much tighter with no one looking. “I cannot believe Mother has been dragged into such a plot…”

Basch removes his helmet. He gives Larsa sympathetic but firm look. “Yet she is.”

“She has been lead astray,” Larsa insists, and, before Basch can politely refute that, adds, “My mother is petty in her grief, perhaps even vengeful. Yet, and forgive me: she is no mastermind.” Unwinding his fingers, he begins to correct the wide cuffs of his sleeves. “I am not beyond my ken to say she is not smart enough for any of this.”

“Let us agree others are involved,” Basch says, unwilling to outright agree with the comment of her intelligence. Hideous as her intentions are, there is dictum Basch cannot will himself around. “What is your will?”

Emperor Solidor sits quietly for a moment, picking through his thoughts. It is best he is sure, confident in whatever careful considerations he comes to, but an aching unease grows in the silence.

It is too familiar, this and what lead to Raminas' demise. As it was not feasible to close the roads into Dalmasca, the royal guards and knights therein had but only one recourse: to thwart each attempt on the king’s life as they were made. It was not a sustainable strategy, with one venture being halted within the king’s chambers in the palace proper.

He feels a similar anxiety now. He had known an attack was coming, yet there had been virtually nothing that he could do about it. Basch feels some reassurance, knowing that Belias had been sighted and he had been right to let her keep the Esper.

“Someone else pulls her strings. Much, mayhaps, as they intended to pull mine.” Larsa sighs through his nose, fingers tapping idly where his mother had held his arm. Nodding to himself, “Our course of action is to find out whom.”

He looks to Basch. His eyes are determined, if a little weary. A look that is all too familiar, well worn by those burdened by rule.

“And pray that in the interim that should Queen Ashelia be unable to defend herself, her pirate einherjar will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These updates are becoming monthly orz  
> B u t, the cast reunites next chapter! Huzzah! The easter eggs this go around are the locations mentioned; all are taken from Ivalice Alliance games! Auralith/auracite are from Revenant Wings forward.  
> See you next update! o7


	9. inflammation o1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Inflammation**  
>  **noun:** a localized physical condition in which part of the body becomes painful, reddened, swollen, and hot, especially as a reaction to infection.

**INFLAMMATION**   
**1/5**

 

Ashe cannot will herself to sit.

There is a chance it is all her mind, but she... _feels_ the numbness of her left side more if she is seated. It lingers more strongly in the upper left of her chest, down her arm, creeping up her cheek. Near non-existent in her leg, however, and so standing gives her a sense of control.

The healers and apothecary have her drinking some concoction on the hour. The taste is strong with fruit but that evaporates quickly, making the thick liquid _very_ weird to swallow. She hates it. Supposedly it is to dissapate the remaining toxin as her organs and muscles continue to ebb it out and break it down. Ashe is largely out of the ‘danger zone’, or so they emphatically insist, though she will be experiencing ‘aftershocks’ for weeks, maybe months; moments of muscles seizing. She has been provided with some solution or another to be injected with in the event that happens.

They’ll be taking blood from her for at least a year, minding the viscosity, checking for clots. Staying active helps with that, too; preventing sediment to build up. However, for the immediate future, her vitals must remain tepid. Too great a spike in her blood flow can carry the more potent remnants to her heart, lungs, brain - anywhere that could kill her quickly.

So, she stands. Trying not to be aware of her breathing, her heartbeat. Especially difficult, given her company.

Breath and beat are aggravatingly affected when Balthier enters.

He breezes into the solar, easy as he pleases, as if the pirate’s presence in the beatified hall isn’t the silliest thing. Then again, it would not be the first time he’s been here, the last had him leaning against the table, making mild demands of the Marquis.

He and Fran make a casual stride through the soft sunbeams leaving long rectangular chunks of warm light across the hall.

Ashe wants to be angry with him, telling herself it is only out of consideration for her vitals that she is not. Angry at him and how his swagger carries him across the floor. Gods. She’s so angry at _herself_. That after that stupid, dismissive note; after his uncalled for attitude aboard the _Galbana_ ; after these long bouts of silence; after he has made a point of looking beyond her for something more valuable…

...That after all of that, she _still_ finds him devastatingly handsome.

His tunic opens a in V, revealing a necklace against his chest. It’s colorful, the beadwork trading off from light blue to pale red. They’re stark against the tan of his skin and white of his shirt. The popped collar and open neck is quite different from the tall neck and cravat-inspired chiton he wore when they met. The sleeves are worn differently as well, cuffed back at his elbow, yet the look is no less refined, still setting him apart from - _above_ \- any of his peers.

Even lacking a fastened vest, the line of his body is clear. The white, tailor fitted shirt tucked into dark pants that rest just above his hips creates an elongating effect, dragging her eyes down the pronounced wedge of Balthier’s torso, from his shoulders to those ever-present belts. Coming up to his knees, his boots have cords criss-crossed thickly creating a padded layer of Xs down to the crease of the ankle.

Purposefully, the area between the loops of his belts and the tops of his boots is _not_ acknowledged.

His eyes widen just touch when they land on her, so slightly there’s every chance she imagined it. Her nod gives up nothing (hopefully), yet she has to restrain herself from shifting her gaze to Fran too quickly. She can still see Balthier, though, as they draw closer. Can still see him cast his gaze up and down her, and she hates that he is likely just checking for injuries. Hates that she would rather it to be something else. Something _more._

Ashe distracts herself with Fran’s hair. The filigree hair clip is much higher on her head now, just behind her erect ears, lifting the hair up in a slight bump. Errant fringe still frames her heart-shaped face but not as thickly as before, the rest of her hair pulled back and up into a braid starting right behind the clip. The braid is a fat rope down her back, making like a pendulum as she walks.

Stunning, as always.

She doesn’t bother trying to hide her smile, telling Fran, “Is there no style that would not suit you?”

Balthier cocks an eyebrow, the corners of Fran’s mouth quirking up just slightly. “A queen with envy?” she asks with simper.

“I am always in too much awe of you to be jealous,” Ashe parries, held tilted, smile indiscernible. It is understandable that anyone that does not know them would find the exchange a bit off. Anyone one that _does_ , can see it as the friendly exchange, in their own way, that it is.

Like Balthier, who watches with a smirk.

“Aren’t the whole of us. Fran’s in a league of her own,” he compliments easily. “Comparing oneself to her perfection won’t do for one’s self-confidence.”

Ashe lifts her chin towards him, eyebrows raised. “You seem to have survived all this time.”

His answer and grin are immediate. “I, too, am in a league of my own.”

Ashe wants all the nights she wished them alive returned. She wants them returned and she wants them done so with interest. She isn’t like Vaan or Penelo, ‘just’ happy Fran and Balthier are not counted amongst the _Bahamut’s_ dead. Their last actions had made her victories that much more hollow, their bodies the last to the pile; she did not climb back onto her throne over the corpses of her enemies but those of her friends.

Still, every morning she woke to the sight of the _Bahamut_ carcass, it had not all been in _vain_. She silently began and ended each morning with an emphatic gratitude, for she could not stand at that balcony to do so without them. She had grieved, in her own ways. Not with tears (at least, not _too_ many) or the more standard ways to mourn; Ashe knows neither of them would appreciate that. She could not let their sacrifice go to waste.

She would be _The_ Queen.

And then thirteen months later she got that _stupid_ note and it _ruined everything_. It completely shredded the already fragile narrative she had pieced together, wasting the carefully torn out pieces of books and scripts with her determined but shaking hands. Griefed fragments stuck to pages with too much paste out of fear of losing them.

Obviously Ashe would rather them alive than dead, but in the same breath, _how dare they_. Laying low, however long of a recovery period? Fine. Allowing the majority of anyone aware of the _Strahl_ to believe the crew lost? Also fine. Even keeping the truth of their survival from those they left the _Strahl_ with, Vaan, Penelo, Nono? _Perhaps_ , if only because the first two at the time were notoriously bad at keeping secrets and their status needed to be kept under wraps. Maybe Nono expected it.

But why _her_? Why let her live with the greatest amount of guilt, blame, loss? Ashe would have promised them anything, easily her silence, if only they had come to her. A terrible vow she had made to herself the moment radio contact cut out and she had been convinced she had lost them both.

They do not have to like her. No one does, she is royalty and that is simply part of the whole thing of it. And yet… Yet, how could they do this to her?

How could _he_ do this to her?

Apparently, she seems to be alone in this sense of slightedness. Balthier and Fran are undoubtedly confident in their choices, having offered no apology nor hint of remorse; neither Penelo nor Vaan has ever said much beyond laughing over ‘how totally like them’ it all is.

Perchance this is some exceedingly cruel lesson in humility, but Ashe, for however overbearing she might be, still struggles to think she should be _getting over herself_ in regards to this. Yet, she cannot bring herself to say anything about it, either. It is easier to think such things than know them.

It is bad enough, to know he goes so far away for something more valuable. To _hear_ him say it...

There are some wounds even the Warrior Queen could succumb to.

She has no idea what to do with all of… this. All these stumbling, slurred thoughts, all these confusing emotions. So, somewhat against her type, Ashe leaves them all stuffed and pointedly ignored in a chest at the back of her mind. More often a woman of action, but she is too embarrassed to open it. Or acknowledge that it is specifically a _hope_ chest.

Ashe could almost be surprised by how her voice holds. “No one else could stand you?”

He smirks. Something is hot in her chest. She tells herself it is likely the toxin about to kill her, and has nothing to do with Balthier liking her jab. “You know how lonely it is at the top.”

Before she can say anything stupid, one of the doors to the solar is pushed open, Vaan’s scruffy head popping in through the opening. All three look at him, but when he guilty jerks his head back towards the hall, Fran sighs and leaves to join him.

“What is this?” Ashe asks quietly.

Balthier’s keeps his voice equally low as they watch Fran follow Vaan out the door. “We left a bit of a situation in the hall.”

“A ‘situation’,” she repeats, incredulous. His shrug is easy.

“We were sent along without an explanation. Fran will sort it out.”

Ashe tuts him. “That is not an answer, Balthier.”

“You’d have to ask a question, for an answer.”

She gives a short scoff of exasperation. Balthier, pleased with himself, hooks his thumbs behind his belts and holds them loosely. He will never change. However much that vexes her, she equally adores it.

Both afraid of the silence and needled by the negativity of their last ‘conversation’ alone, Ashe pushes  _this_ conversation forward as if the interruption hadn’t happened. She feels ridiculous, reduced to small talk. For all the tragedy they’ve been through together, it leaves her struggling for anything pleasant to say.

Or maybe she’s just boring.

Fighting all of her urges to play with a ring that has long since been removed, she allows herself a small smile, hoping to ease back the unfamiliar nervousness she feels. “It is not so lonely at the top,” she tells him.

She has no idea why that is the wrong thing to say, but Ashe immediately regrets it. His confident smile loses its ease, sitting firmly in place. The warmth of his face and in his eyes melts away into something far more cool.

“Oh, I’ve _heard_ ,” Balthier says, incurious.

Balthier looks away from her then, further into the solar, as if he’s bored with what is in front of him. She sucks in her breath with stunned eyes, much as she had when he had hit her with the truth of his passed identity.

Only now he has hit her with something else. Ashe’s lips pull into a slim frown. Her gaze lowers to the glass window behind him. It is just as before, when she tried to tell him of the _one_ holiday she’s had since her coronation. Apparently so mundane and uninteresting, he’d changed the topic to the _Strahl_.

Why had she ever confused his tolerance of her as anything else?

Balthier shifts, Ashe can see out of her peripheral he is looking at her again. It would be her turn now, wouldn’t it?

With a sigh, she gives a slight shrug as she meets his eyes. Her chin is a bit high, to compensate for how much his dismissal stings. “I know it is _unbecoming_ of a queen,” she concedes, though the admission lacks any real guilt. “Still, I have no desire to fend off Vaan and Penelo’s demands for day trips.”

There’s a change in Balthier’s demeanor, but she can’t guess what for. She feels like it is mild confusion in his eyes (brown, better than any desert shade), and as she has known for too long, that even though she should not, she cares too much what this pirate thinks.

“They are not long excursions,” Ashe insists casually. Her anger has always been a well fire, but time has pushed the rim of it further and further out, making it more difficult stoke. Whether it is a forced patience or simply a longer fuse, is anyone’s guess. Ashe certainly isn’t taking a closer look. As if such an attitude would work with Balthier anyway. “I see to it they are months apart. I have managed to impress that much upon them, at least.”

He seems to hesitate then, a rare unsure pause between wanting to say something and deciding on what. How to admonish her over how she owes him no explanations.

After all, that would require him to be interested in how her time is spent, wouldn’t it?

The both of them are spared whatever Balthier is going to rebuke her with, when the solid doors to the solar open again, this time a sniffling, wobbly-lipped Penelo slipping through the small space she’s made. It is pushed further in, this time by Vaan who is followed by Fran.

**###**

Balthier is midway tempted to thank a god.

He hadn’t exactly expected her to put it on a banner, but Ashe has been rather forthcoming before, regarding her trips to Rozarria. It had taken next to nothing in prodding her for whatever it had been she wanted to share, although he had immediately regretted asking. Well. Sort of. Better to hear it from her lips.

So why didn’t he hear it here? The only ‘excursions’ offered up had been with Vaan and Penelo; admittedly, Balthier didn’t know about those, but small jaunts with a merry band of nouveau pirates is not the meat of her ‘vacation’ rumors. Perhaps it’s so common knowledge she doesn’t feel the need to discuss it?

Could be the rumors are just that, even if there is a _lot_ of smoke for there to be no fire. May be. Ashe’s business is her own as much as Balthier’s is his. She certainly has enough people picking and prodding at her. If she would rather keep something to herself, well, he understands that just fine. That understanding isn’t sparing his feelings on the matter much at all, though. It’s so much work not to think about the source of that disconnect.

Balthier isn’t an _idiot_. He’s not _Vaan_ , failing to recognize what has been staring at him dead in the eye the whole time. Watching the self-imposed protégé wrestling with an unknown emotion had been amusing, his struggling to understand the tightness in his chest whenever Penelo seemed to be drifting away from him.

Funny to watch, maybe, but not experience. Admitting that Ashe is attractive is the easiest part. Anything more gets tricky. Tricky enough that he feels more like he is defusing a bomb.

Penelo’s miserable shuffle prevents him from cutting a wire that would likely be the wrong one. Her guilt-slumped shoulders are heartbreaking, but he could owe her one here.

Doesn’t stop him from shooting Vaan a curious look, however.

Ashe needs no explanation, apparently; scowls at Vaan, scolds him.

“You told her,” she accuses. The judgemental hands on her hips are lifted and extended towards Penelo, open for a hug. Eyes welling over, Penelo eagerly takes the offer, latching on to her queen.

Vaan scratches at the back of his head, pulling his fingers from his hair. Getting a little long these days. “Well… Yeah.”

Penelo’s “I’m really sorry,” comes croaked and muffled from between them, and her wet face probably doesn’t feel great against Ashe’s bare shoulder. She at least has pressed herself into the side without the bandages. He suspects Ashe’s blouse is shoulderless to accommodate the wrapping for easy changing. “Really, _really_ sorry.”

Ashe moves a hand from Penelo’s back to give a comforting pat to the space between her twin chignons looped at the back of her head. “You have nothing to apologize for,” and Balthier tries not to be taken aback by how gentle her assurance is.

Those hands that swung a sword and endlessly worried a ring are equally meant and not meant for such a compassionate gesture. On the one hand, a downside to being away for so long is being caught off guard by what may be - by now - normal things. On the other, he gets to discover those things, be them traits, ideology, whatever. It’s somewhat more drastic with Ashe than the others. With anyone else, really.

Ashe wears such a different version of herself post-war. He is very nearly annoyed with how much he’d rather like the time to get to know her all over again.

For now, he settles on knowing what Vaan told Penelo. Balthier glances at Fran. Without moving her head, her red eyes slide to the side to meet his. She doesn’t know either. Curious.

“Told her what?” he prompts airily.

“Nothing he should have,” Ashe bites off. Ah. Now _that_ is a familiar tone. “Nothing that is confirmed.”

Vaan wrinkles his nose at that. “C’mon, Ashe,” he insists, hands flopping down against his sides. “You heard Al-Cid.”

Fran and Balthier make eye contact again. If Ashe were any less of a lady, she would growl.

“Hear _me_.”

Vaan flinches at her tone. Penelo pulls away from her, dabbing the back of her hand under her nose, still holding onto Ashe with her other arm. She peeks between her queen and her lover. One eye red from crying, the other red with a burst blood vessel.

“Al-Cid may have made it his place to procure puzzle pieces, yet it is _mine_ to put them together. One cannot look upon a collection of paints then assume to know the subject of the artist.” Penelo sniffles softly as Vaan’s shoulder droop guiltily, although Balthier notes neither of them look convinced of Ashe’s point. “It is _not_ his place to determine who assigns my threats.”

The young pirates bob their heads, muttering their agreeance along the lines of, “Yes, Ashe.” Their queen continues to scowl at Vaan, one hand on her hip while the other comforts Penelo with a gentle pat to her hair.

An amusing display, and Balthier tries not to feel a certain lift in his chest at how vehemently Ashe _denounces_ Al-Cid.

“Now that that is settled,” he interjects, hands casually resting on height of his belts, “ _What_ in particular is Lord Margrace so grievously wrong over?”

A short hesitance takes the group. Their eyes wander mildly, none of them volunteering anything right away. Finally, Vaan moves to answer, but Ashe is quick to glare him down.

“Uh…” Vaan scratches at his stubble (one day Vaan couldn’t grow any facial hair, and the next he could benefit from a twice-day shave), and wisely defers to Ashe. “You know it better… I think.”

She gives an annoyed huff, but does tell Balthier and Fran what exactly they’d missed.

Fran has most of her weight on one leg, hip cocked out and head tilted, thick braid hanging away from her body. As casually as he can, he crosses the short distance to the table and leans against the edge as Ashe shares some unpleasant observations about himself. His stare lingers on the muted shine of his leather boots as he listens, arms crossed across his chest, his hands in loose fists.

If it weren’t a point of pride to keep standing, Balthier would need to take a seat.

Vaan has no such problems, having slouched into one of the tall chairs surrounding the solid stone conference table. Penelo has sat herself in the well of his lap, head on his shoulder and legs over the side. Their queen stands, tastefully reclined against another chair with her fingers laced atop the height of the back. She keeps her head tilted out of a shaft of sunlight from the tall windows.

Though clearly frustrated to relay the information, Ashe has nothing on Fran’s agitation. Her long ears twitch in irritation, subtle to the unfamiliar eye but a blaring motion to Balthier. Only a slight crinkle to the outer corner of her eyes on an otherwise passive face, but he knows his partner: Fran dislikes everything they’ve heard at least as much as he has.

“Well.” Balthier clicks his tongue in thinly veiled annoyance. “We disagree with Al-Cid’s assessments.”

“Emphatically,” Fran states flat. Her ironic delivery gets a smarmy look from him, but he knows better than to tease her about it right now.

Ashe is quick to concur, “As I expected.”

“ _I_ expect our reasons to be less sentimental than yours.” Ashe’s chin lifts in immediate indignation to Fran’s wry comment.

Balthier smirks in agreement. “I may have never been shy in my observations of the Marquis and his machinations. This?” and he gestures to the situation with one hand, ignoring Ashe’s mild glare at his comments over her uncle, “Is a bit too much.”

Penelo holds onto Vaan as he leans them forward, plunging his hand down the back of his shirt to reach an itch. “Are ya sure? He’s pretty diabolical -” but he freezes, elbow pointed straight up, at Ashe’s immediate fixed stare, offering a feeble backpedal, “- In like, a… heroic? way?”

“...Anything else to add, Balthier?” she asks, still staring down her subjects.

“Vaan has a point.”

Ashe has a glare that can melt glass. As she sets it upon him, Balthier is quietly glad he has the overconfidence to weather it.

“Ondore’s scheming has done you a great deal of favors, Your Majesty,” he points out. “Don’t do either of you the disservice of pretending that conniving nature does not exist.” She scoffs over his gall but doesn’t disagree. Verbally, anyway; her body language tells him she’s barely retraining one her trademark stubborn protests. “That being said, however, he doesn’t make a habit of burning bridges. He’s a careful noble.” Infuriatingly so. “Not much of a gambler.”

“Prefers his games fixed,” Fran agrees. “Betting on the _Strahl_ , for something such as this, is too great a risk for the Marquis.”

“We very nearly didn’t attend.” Balthier is careful to casually keep his eyes away from Fran, ‘lest she give him and his petty mistruth up.

He might pay for it later, but for now, she lets him slide. “By all accounts, we did not.”

Vaan scrunches his nose. “ _Pretty sure_ we saw you guys last night.”

“All due to the most uninvited guests.” Balthier sighs dramatically, a show of inconvenience. “We were content to leave as unnoticed as we came.”

“Where were you, if not the main event?” Ashe asks.

“Robbing valuables.” The pause is fat as the Dalmascans stare at Fran. Balthier gives an uncomfortable, slow shake of his head.

“Procuring unattended costly articles,” he clarifies smoothly. His tone is lighter than the look he shoots her.

Fran offers no apology. Ashe levels him with glare equal parts unimpressed and annoyed. Balthier shows her a closed lip, knowing smile and a shrug. A squinting Penelo finally peeps up. Her voice is hoarse and just above a whisper due to injury, almost humorous with her scrutinizing question, “But you _were_ going to see us, _right_?”

The judgemental silence flips to something just a bit uncomfortable at the accusation. Ashe’s eyes linger for only a moment before she looks away with a sigh. She had already come to the conclusion of ‘no’, hadn’t she. When she asked where they had been.

He and Fran look at each other before looking back to the group. Balthier’s shallow frown is comically considering, hiding the sting of the implication. Just what on this earth do they think of them?

The silence is fast broken by Fran. “Halim Ondore guides not the winds of our sails,” she says. “Our absence would best remind him of that.” She reaches out then, her palm up as her long nails gently tap beneath Penelo’s chin. “ We had planned to see you this morrow.”

It’s about as sweet as Verian gestures get, and the children’s eyes thin as they grin up at her. Ashe’s smile is reserved and closed-lipped, not entirely convinced.

Not entirely interested in pressing it, either, it seems. “We all agree, then, that Halim is beyond this?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Balthier cautions airily, running his hand down the line of his neck. “There is certainly enough to be suspect over.”

Ashe tuts. “Make up your mind.”

“If not the Marquis,” Fran interjects, “Then someone close by. Al-Cid is right to note the secrecy of this event; of the personal and private matter of our relations.”

“Stranger things have happened.” Ashe is surely referring to Ondore having reasonable and innocent cause to play along with Vayne’s will.

Balthier gives a shallow shake of his head. “The dominos won’t come to lie like that often.” Whoever orchestrated the attack _did_ have knowledge of that little fete, and the manor’s architecture. “Though I agree with Her Highness,” he assures, “Al-Cid has made some leaps. If we only focus on what we know for sure, it casts a net across a suspect pool larger than just the Marquis.”

“Though, how lucky she is, that of all the neurotoxin in all the world, she is stuck with one whose antidote is housed in the apothecary,” Fran points out.

Penelo presses the pads of her fingers against her wrapped throat, trying to speak more clearly. “There’s a still a chance those people looking for Ashe and the Marquis aren’t related,” she rasps. “Anyone can find out anything, for the right price.”

Balthier tips is head in acknowledgement. She’s got them there. Regicide is serious business; minus the odd lunatic firing from a crowd, any attempt on a royal’s life tends to be a carefully planned thing. With enough coin, research is easily obtained.

“Oh yeah,” Vaan wonders aloud. Balthier clicks his tongue. How could he forget? Honestly. “ _Those_ jokers. What’d they call her again?”

“A wytch,” Penelo and Balthier answer in unison.

Vaan snrks. “You sure she hasn’t met them?”

“ _She_ is right here!” Ashe snaps. Guilty murmur of acknowledgement. She scoffs. “And _no_. Their accents were distinct.”

Fran cocks her hip, the backs of her curled fingers against it. “Where from?”

“Northern. Valendian, in any case,” although it’s a careful answer. Her fingers absently tap her bottom lip in thought. The toxins had rolled a fog across her mind last night, but, “I thought, perhaps, Landis.”

“ _Landis_?” Balthier parrots in surprise. He and Fran give each other a long look, not unlike the moment they learned ‘Amalia’s’ identity. “Don’t hear of many Landisian _Revs_ , do we, Fran?”

“Not even when there was a Landis.” She holds his eyes a moment longer before looking at Ashe. “This may yet give them all away.”

Vaan grunts with a stretch, slouching deeper in the chair. “Is that why we’ve never heard of, uh -?”

“Avadymoor,” Ashe says.

“That place!” Vaan points at her with a snap of his fingers. “‘Cause it’s in Landis? Er, what used to be Landis.” Both Ashe and Balthier pull a thoughtful face at that.

“Landis is gone more in name,” she says. “It is occupied, still inhabited. As Dalmasca was to remain.”

 _Another Republic fallen into the Empire’s osmosis_ , Balthier mentally grouses. With a disgruntled ‘bah’, he waves the thought away. “That is neither here nor there. We now have a place to start.”

“‘We’,” Ashe deadpans. The room gives her a set of sly looks. “Hold just a moment -”

Balthier cuts off her protests. “Waiting is the worst thing we could do, Highness,” he insists with a smirk. “I expect you’re well enough to travel?”

“I - The only place I am traveling to is Dalmasca!”

“I’ve changed my mind!” Penelo manages to chirp, clapping her hands together. “I want to rescue Ashe for my birthday instead!”

“I don’t need -”

“And who are we, to deny the Birthday Girl?” Fran asks, a mischievous lit to her voice.

Vaan sits them both forward easily. “Sounds like another adventure!” He stands with a slight grunt from Penelo’s extra weight, but it’s a surprisingly fluid motion from his thin frame. “Can’t wait to meet my ‘friend’ again.”

“But…!”

Realizing she’s being ignored (again), Ashe scoffs in resignation. The children practically scamper out of the room before their queen can order them otherwise. Fran saunters after them, Ashe’s head turning slowly as she watches her go.

Balthier barely contains a laugh over Ashe’s face; she looks like an adorable, royal gaping fish. She snaps her mouth shut, her lips set in a frown.

“I do _not_ need rescuing,” she insists to him. He only shrugs.

“We are looking for it to stay that way.” Uncrossing his arms, he pushes off the table he’s been half-seated against and makes for the door himself. “The hardest target to strike is a moving one. You used to know that, Princess.”

“I am _Queen_ ,” she hisses at him as he passes by her. “I understand if you _don’t_ know that. As you missed the coronation.”

He winces. And he was _this_ close to getting out of the room, too. With a mild clearing of his throat, Balthier turns to look at her from the side. “Pirate’s life is a busy one.”

Her brow lifts, unimpressed, and he suspects that was the wrong smarmy line to use. “It must be,” she agrees, dry. “No time in a whole year to pen a note.”

Balthier’s smile is immediate and tight. He faces her fully. “Right,” he reluctantly agrees, hooking his hands onto his belt. Ashe begins walking towards him. Honestly, there is never going to be good time to have this talk, might as well be now. “About that. We -”

Except, Ashe doesn’t come to stand in front of him, stalking swiftly by him and out the door.

“- Highness?” he calls after her strong exit. She slows but doesn’t stop, giving him a somewhat contemptuous look over her shoulder.

“Moving target,” she mocks, then turns her back on him once again.

He blinks and she’s gone, disappeared around the corner. Balthier stands there, the warm sunlight through the stained glass doing nothing against the chill of her wake.

Ouch.

**###**

Filo’s whole body flinches.

The whole of her shivers badly enough to quake, chattering her teeth despite her mouth being covered by the cloth tied around her face. She’s currently not the one having the frigid water tossed on her, but it’s still hard to watch it happen to Tomaj.

He groans wetly as the bucket is dumped on him, the contents of it cold enough for soft chunks of ice to form and hit the metal floor with a handful of _baps_. Her vision has grown wobbly, but she can see him roughly jerk his head, shake some of the water off. He’s only been here since this morning; he still has the energy to be physically defiant. She thinks it's morning anyway. Ever since she came to, they won't let her sleep. She’d rather none of them get grabbed, obviously, but she’s so glad it’s her and Tomaj.

Kytes would dissolve like paper under this treatment.

Whoever these black-clad creeps are, they haven’t done too much looking into on Vaan’s crew, if they think putting these basic ass screws to them are gonna work on either her or Tomaj. All they see are a tween and a bookie - Filo was fighting off the streets long before Archadian soldiers joined the mix, and Tomaj wouldn’t be able to keep that money flowing under the table if he didn’t know how to protect it.

The two of them lock red-rimmed, twitching eyes. It’s hard to discern from all the violent trembling, but they share a short nod of acknowledgement. They got this. _Whatever this is, we’re not rollin’ on anyone._

Of course, with her mouth all gagged up she can’t tell him that this isn’t over any heist or raid. Both the tarred and feathered mooks have been asking Filo about _Ashe_. Filo has got her share of problems with her Queen, but she’s not gonna lend a hand to any of this cowardly, torture-a-kid crap. Whatever they were hoping to get out of her, all she’s given them is a rolodex of insults and swears.

She bets that’s why they dragged in a bound Tomaj.

And Tomaj talked alright. About dodging shipping taxes, Low Town smuggling routes, which Archadian Guard captains were willing to be bribed. Running his mouth with answers that didn’t fit their questions. He, too, isn’t giving up a thing on their Queen.

Not without consequence, though. There’s always been two people in the room, but since Filo came to sometime last night, one of them has been constant. A man with ruffles stuffed up to his chin, a creepy bird mask hiding the top half of his face, the eyes of _that_ hidden by a wide, drawn down hood. The shoulders and lapel of his coat are made of thick, bushy fur, and his torso is wrapped up in leather straps and a fat belt.

It’s all in black, just like the other people that have rotated through. And since he’s been here since Tomaj was brought in, he’s had enough of Tomaj’s run around. With a scuffed and tarnished hilt of a short sword, Ruffles cracks her friend straight across the face. Filo winces at the sound of solid metal against wet, soft skin and bone.

“Now, now,” the other drawls. He’s a thin guy, with a three-pointed hat tilted down over his eyes. Archadian, probably, for how hoity-toity his accent is. Valendian, at the very least. To keep most of his face hidden, his head is tilted down, tipped to the side and she can see his mouth while he talks. “Break his jaw and he can’t tell us anything.”

Ruffles grunts. “He weren’t tellin’ us nothin’ anyway.”

“He will,” Tricorne says. He’s leaning forward, all his weight casually on a cane. “Daedra will be along shortly. With the ampoule of you-know-what as well.”

Filo doesn’t know what an… ample… am-pool… whatever. She doesn’t know what _that_ is, but her lower back tenses up at a new tool being brought in. Tricorne tilts his chin towards her, and just in case he can somehow see through his foppy hat, Filo glares at him. Her eyes are so thin she nearly loses him in the low light and shadows.

“You surprised us, love,” he says, soft and eerie. “Though you’re vocally opposed to Raithwall’s Wytch, to her face I might add.” He grins. “Loved that. Really loved that. Utterly top. But even with a hate strong enough to say it straight to her, you’re too much of a patriot for your kingdom. And the businessman!”

Tomaj spits, the new blood already turning pink on his skin from all the water he’s still soaked with. “Unwilling to make a deal.” He sighs, his whole body slumping with exaggerated lament. “She’s really got a spell on you all.”

_Bam bam_

_“Khyle.”_

Both captives look over at the knocking and voice from the other side of the heavy metal door. Ruffles passes them as he crosses the room, her and Tomaj sharing a split-second, concerned look in silence as he blocks Tricorne’s view.

“There she is,” Tricorne greets.

As the wide door is pushed open, a woman Filo’s only seen once since she’s got here comes through in a huff. The long, ragged feathers of her skirt curl out too wide for the opening, held back by the door and wall before popping back into place around her legs. It could be the freezing water affecting her, but Filo thinks there’s something wrong with her gait. She’s favoring one side, like she’s babying an injury.

She wasn’t like that before. Did they go after another crew member?

“You got it, then?”

“Ye’.” Daedra holds up her hand, showcasing a glass vial, two or so inches in length, held longways between her gloved thumb and index finger. A dark purple sludge sinks down the inside of the glass. Filo’s alarm grows. “Just like ya asked, Khyle.”

“Mint!” Khyle, formally Tricorne, chirps, excitedly tapping his cane against the floor. Lifting that cane, he waggles it back and forth between Tomaj and Filo as he addresses them. “She’s got a spell on you, that Wytch. ‘Course, that’s what Wytches do. We’re here for _you_ , you know. We’ll save you all.”

Daedra holds out the vial - ampole? - to the still nameless Ruffles.

“We just need the _teensiest_ bit of your help to do it.”

Ruffles slams the door, and it’s involuntary, she swears, but her whole body jumps at the sound. She’s been stuck on her knees for hours, tied down and doused, and her muscles scream at the sudden movement. She sucks in her breath, inhaling some of the water soaked into her gag cloth.

“After all,” Khyle drawls, the three captors coming close enough to block the one light in the room. “You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help themselves.”

“Bunch’a _heroes_ ,” Tomaj slurs. His upper lip is split towards his nose, visibly quivering from the pain and cold. Filo’s only got what feels like a swollen and black eye and a few body bruises. Tomaj’s is the first blood she’s seen spilled.

From beneath their veils and masks, the three snigger. “Well, better than a bunch of murderers, you know?” Kyhle grins. “Speaking of… Is there anything in particular we want to know first, friends?”

Daedra places a hand over her ribs, and Filo knows for sure now she’s injured.

“The Viera,” she growls. “The rabid one that gutted Bilvy.”

Filo only knows a handful of Viera by name, and she definitely doesn’t know any Bilvy. Tomaj gives a subtle shake of his head, and she knows it must have been Fran. She didn’t know the _Strahl_ was docked in Bhujerba, but that’s the only Viera he’d immediately want to protect. Well… Well, _good_. Fran’s no joke. No wonder ‘Bilvy’ got gutted and this chick’s ribs hurt.

The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Ah!” They flinch. “You _do_ know her, then.”

Tomaj grimaces, but Filo musters up everything she’s got into her sneer, even with the rag in her mouth. It’s like he can sense all the vile swears passing through her mind.

Languidly, Kyhle crouches in front of her, reaches out a hand, pulls the gag from her sore mouth. He tugs it out slowly, the soft leather of his gloves against her chin awful and infuriating. Filo yanks her head away, the icy cloth never making it passed her lower lip. She seethes and scowls.

“Yeah, we do!” she spits. Tomaj utters a quiet, pointless ‘don’t’ but she can’t hold it back. She keeps Khyle’s imaginary stare, glaring right through his stupid hat. “She’ll come get us. She’ll bring our Queen - our _Revenge Queen_ . She tore through an Empire, she slayed a godling. You can’t hurt her! You won’t even _know_ where to start feelin’ sorry!”

There’s a pregnant pause before Kyhle’s lips slowly begin to pull back into an eerie, discomforting smile. She’s shaking because she’s cold, not because she’s scared, she’s shaking because she’s cold not because she’s scared, she’s shaking because she’s -

“The Viera has direct access to Ashelia B’Nargin, then?”

\- _scared_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck, I am the worst, I know, I'm sorry! orz  
> If you'd like to know what kept me away, I write (and sometimes color for) an online comic! The entirety of April was spent launching our Patreon and increasing our upload schedule. If anyone's interested, it's a murder mystery ghost story, and you can find us here: auraambitcomic.com c:  
> I don't really have an easter egg for this chapter, but Balthier's outfit is his redesign for War of the Lions!


	10. inflammation o2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **rubor:**  
>  **noun:** redness; blood vessels filling, expanding. one of the cardinal signs of inflammation

**INFLAMMATION  
2/5**

 

Ashe taps the short glass with the pads of her fingers.

Halim sighs heavily.

He stands at the terrace of his private quarters, a perfect and horrible view of the fete’s remains, his back to her. Despite all that has happened, he is like to have more on his mind than even herself. Or, perhaps, _because_ of all that has happened.

What an incredibly miserable turn of events. The Marquis kept the bulk of fighting out of Bhujerba with effort yet ease, and here he is, three years out of it, and his City-State suffered more damage in one night than it ever did at even at the height of the War.

When Ashe had passed through his office, her eyebrows furrowed at the state of it. On his desk are estimations of damages that continue to need correction, a list of casualties, the fatalities - a number only tentatively recorded, a sum slashed through it for morbid launder. The hall that separates his reign office and the conference hall have all its doors stood open; making way for the adjusters, captains, counsel, and anyone else running around. Aides are attempting to sort the official inquiries before they are crushed to death under them. The press make a clamor at the gates.

Taking a final settling breath, Ashe squares her shoulders and steps out of the faux safety of the shade, coming to stand beside her Uncle.

Thin hands set the crystalline glass before him. Halim eyes the contents, a lovely liquid garnet reflecting the sun.

“This Madhu was older than you,” he laments. It doesn’t fill even half the glass, which is good: this amount of the spirit alone will have him see the world tilt if he doesn’t take it slow.

“Were you holding off until it looked like blood?” Ashe asks, wry.

“The darker the better,” he says, taking a sip.

They stand in silence. Both of them looking down at the ripped open dance hall, all manner of staff looking very small as they wander about it, dipping in and out of the ugly hole. The belly of his home, the residence of House Ondore for generations, blown out and guts spilled.

Her heart aches, having suffered a familiar wound. With hesitation, Ashe finally ventures, “Uncle…”

“I won’t have your apologies,” he interrupts her with a firm tone.

She sighs, tucking her hair back. “Am I not meant to be sorry, Halim?”

He takes another sip, given her a droll look. “I would rather you be unapologetically extraordinary.”

“‘Extraordinary’,” she mocks. How dare he tend to her wrung out emotions, with all this chaos about him. Kindness is the most difficult thing for her to take. “All that is _extraordinary_ about me is the wake I leave.”

“Yet, what about you would you call ‘ordinary’, my dear?” Halim counters, lifting his Madhu.

She only narrows her eyes, unwilling to let his wordplay get the better of her. This is too comfortable for what has brought it about.

“I will take your silence as defeat.”

Her tongue clicks, unable to resist the bait. “Take the silence for what it truly is.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “And what is that, my dear?”

“Your opinion unsought. Uncle.”

He barks a laugh, swirling the dark liquid before taking another sip against a dimming smile.

After a moment, he speaks.

“The families of the deceased _Parivir_ wail in the health wards,” he states, voice now tired and heavy.  

“...I had heard,” is all she says. Both in notification and while she had been admitted, even in her private room.

“The notifications for the guests are still being made.”

She nods. “It will take time.”

“Rest all their souls, Faram.”

Ashe’s folded hands tighten. He cannot be responsible for this. Not just as her dear uncle, but as a ruler, a leader. More so than Raminas ever had, it is Halim Ondore that pressed upon her and her brothers the importance of caring for their people. How they are born to burden; the lives of each person living in their shadow depend on them above all else.

Perhaps, had this all gone about anywhere else, Ashe may be lead to drink such water in his betrayal. But he would not bring this here.

She knows this, as much as she knows the color of the sky.

She _has_ _to_ know this.

“I understand,” he breaks the silence, “you make to leave.”

Ashe scoffs. “Your streetears are too good, Uncle.”

“They work a little harder, when you pay them well and call them by a more favorable title,” he chuckles. _Parijanahs_. “You have never been much for holding still, have you?”

“If it is of consolation,” her voice grows sour. She leans forward against the stone, arms folding beneath her chest, “I am near ashamed to do so.”

He raises his brows, curious. “Oh?”

“I feel as though I am being made to hide, Uncle.” She sighs. “You know how I hate that.” The Marquis laughs at her, her arms crossing more tightly in defense. “I cannot just _wait_!”

He shakes his head at her, smiling as if she were still a child. Ashe can feel her cheeks grown warm. “It needn’t be today,” he tells her, “but you will eventually have to accept that a stayed hand does equate to indecision wallowed. For now, quit you Bhujerba. That is like the best course available to us… _Raithwall’s Wytch_.”

Ashe huffs, indignant and stubborn over the fresh moniker. Honestly, when will problems over her birthright lay themselves down to die?

More thoughtfully, she looks back down at the surveying teams below. “So much trouble I went through to rightly wear my crown, under guise troubles would cease.” Instead, they lay up, stacks of bricks, in a shrine to her chagrin.

Halim laughs again, a much missed sound after only a day. “Such poetry, Lady Ashe!” He gives a small lift of the glass in toast, teasing her, “Are you the one deciding your flowered psalms?”

“Uncle,” she tuts and scowls. “I am not awake at night, penning songs about myself.”

He shrugs.

“I’m _not_!”

Ignoring her, he takes another sip. “Greatness is more curse than blessing,” he reminds her, something old from her childhood.

“My greatness is measured in woes,” she complains.

“How disingenuous!” he scolds her lightly. “I doubt those around you see you with such pity.”

She stands straight, gesturing the terrace empty besides themselves. “What people, Uncle?” she asks. “Do you see someone I don’t?”

Halim leans forward, his head tipped to look her in the eye. “All that came to your aid last night,” he reminds her. Tilting his glass, the last of Madhu for pooling to the side, he suggests casually, “...Balthier?”

“ _Balthier_ likes his adventures.” Ashe shrugs, before a light breeze picks up her hair. She quickly holds it down at her neck. She must really get it cut. Or learn to tie it back. Honestly. “It just so happens there is nowhere more _adventurous_ than my presence.”

Thus, they have come back to the topic of last night.

She cannot leave without saying at least _something_ about it.

“I am so sorry for Renata.”

“She will walk again.”

“They saved her leg?” Ashe lips turn up, excited. Finally, some good news at all of this loss!

“No.”

She gasps softly, her shoulders curling in at the news. Eight years old… Halim nods grimly, looking passed her head.  With a sigh, he speaks more with some hope.

“We have come a long way from peg legs and ivory stumps.” To Ashe, he smiles at her, needing that to be true. She could not dare argue. “She’s young, you know. Young people are resilient.”

She returns his smile. Aren’t they just. “I will see her before I go.”

“She would like that, I expect.”

“And Aunt?” Ashe hasn’t seen Zhara since before the evening went to half the Nine Hells.

Halim grimaces. “In her chambers. It is... difficult for her to leave right now, you understand."

Ashe sighs sadly before asking, “May I see her before I go as well?”

“...Send word first,” he suggests after a moment. “She is incredibly shaken, and equally as hard on herself as the Lady Ashe. She cannot bear our people to see her trembling. To be seen by _you_ while in such a state…” He sighs.

“The embarrassment is like to be too much to take.”

“I understand,” although she is clearly disappointed. Ashe really would like to see her. Assuming Penelo’s ‘rescue’ of her goes quickly, Ashe will almost certainly have to return straight to Dalmasca. It could be some time before she can see the Marquess again.

Smile forced back on, Halim sets the the Madhu down - in front of Ashe. She eyes it, and then him.

“Uncle.”

His shrug is so-innocent. “Some liquid courage to see you off.”

“ _Uncle_.”

“Be not troubled, my dear.”

“You are _incorrigible_.”

Still, she takes the glass.

**###**

Fran waits in the hall.

Over much protest by her, the group decided Amalia would not be going anywhere alone for the next while. Balthier and Vaan made for the aerodome to have the ships unblocked, and as Kytes returned empty-handed, Penelo has gone off with him to their inn to collect her crew. Leaving Fran as the Queen’s Escort.

She doesn’t mind. Amalia has spent the day flitting from some official or another, checking in with the Marquis’ family. Fran hasn’t had much to do, beyond hover at a polite distance and keep clear of the taxed aides and captains hurrying about. Close enough to be identified as the Queen’s entourage and so deemed safe to leave alone.

She is paying heed, of course, but this is something akin to downtime and Fran welcomes it. The insignia of Bilvy’s medallion is driving her _mad_. She has seen it before, that she is certain. Where and when elude her - but only barely.

The memory is just beyond her recollection, replaying itself behind a dust-caked glass; the moment is out of focus, a blob of shadows moving. Almost as if she could squint and know it again.

Aye. Maddening.

It can’t have been long after she ventured from the Embrace of the Wood. She obviously cannot remember _everything_ , but one of Ivalice’s first lessons to her was to _try to_. That in mind, she had to have come across the symbol between fresh ignorance and force study.

Admittedly a small window, yet one closed decades ago…

The Gods toy with her.

A small mercy that Amalia exits the Marquis’ office then, derailing the looped track Fran’s mind has been running all day. Only steps out and Fran’s nose twitches.

With a subtly arched brow, she asks, “The day has grown so harsh you took some of the edge off?”

Like any one would blame her. The Queen flushes, her pink cheeks growing just a touch darker.

“It was insisted upon,” she whispers, keeping her voice low as she approaches, embarrassed.

Fran lifts both eyebrows, amused. But spares her anything else. “What all left are we do before rejoining the others?”

Still a touch flustered, Amalia fixes her hair as she talks.

“I have made sure to sign every parchment, and press my seal into each dollop of wet wax that is set before me.” Bureaucracy seems exhausting. “My court has been made aware of both my survival, as well as my intent to do no less than see this insult answered.”

“Not just your court.” Amalia gives her a wary look. Fran’s fingers curl, the back of her hand against a cocked hip. “Someone parted with an uncommon purse for one of those sealed epistles.”

“ _Already_?” she asks, dismayed. Fran gives a single nod.

“The heralds run with it now,” she says, and Amalia groans softly frustration. “‘Warrior Queen Makes to Hunt Assassins’ and similar fashion. Most seem to read in your favor.”

“ _Oh_ , _are they_ ,” Amalia snaps sardonically, glaring at the wall. Fran isn’t offended. After pushing her hair back as if smoothing out her composure, Amalia looks back to Fran with bland eyes. “What now then?”

Fran shrugs one shoulder, unconcerned. “It would not matter. Better we be off while they obsess with gossip.”

“I suppose,” Amalia concedes. Holding an arm, she asks, “More immediately, how do we move?”

“On Penelo’s whence return.”

She shakes her head with sigh, smile on her lips. “Must not us act without the _Birthday Girl_.”

“There are rules even _I_ won’t break.”

Both women share in easy amusement.

It is time to move on, however. A welcome respite in the talk, but mostly Fran is satisfied that their Queen hasn’t gotten herself drunk.

“Are we done here?” she asks.

“I have only one stop left to make,” Amalia says, gesturing down the hall. They start off towards the private residence wing. It is quite a shame the tragedy of this place would keep her from burgling it for the next while; the layout is quickly burning into her mind. “That, then to the aerodome?”

Fran gives a single nod of her head. “We are on your clock, Amalia.”

Amalia softly scoffs, checking around the two of them cautiously as they walk, finding no one near, nor anyone paying them any attention. Her shoulders relax in some relief. Still, she comes very close to Fran, speaking quietly.

“ _Fran_ ,” she nearly whines, and Fran thinks it would be a good time to laugh at her, if that were such a thing she did. “You needn’t call me that anymore. If only for my credibility.”

Fran's dual-pronged stilettos scrape across the carpet as she sways along, her wide braid a pendulum down her back.

“A pirate being familiar with your name cannot be good for your _credibility_ ,” she reproves, her own volume unchanged. The Queen sighs with a mild ire but doesn’t push back.

Fran explains, “You were Amalia when desperation saw our trust in each other’s hands. You were Ashelia when I decided I didn’t like you.” She takes vocal offense in a mild, taken aback gasp. “Amalia in Montblanc’s Clan; Amalia in public so as to keep our low profile.

“As such,” Fran concludes, giving _Ashe_ a knowing look and a self-pleased Vieran smile, “You are Amalia when I see you, when I speak of you.”

Ashe purses her lips, looking just short of embarrassed.

“At least you like one of me,” Ashe comments, cool and dry.

“I am here, am I not?”

Ashe gives her a look. “Out of the goodness of your heart?”

Fran brushes her braid back as they round a corner. “Or the depths of your purse.”

“I bet.”

They jest.

The breezeway is more crowded, the two of them pausing their conversation to pass through it. Despite some hurried bows, no one pays Queen Dalmasca or her Verian companion much mind. Any other day, it would be an odd look; there aren’t many Viera in Bhujerba.

Back inside and crossing an empty antechamber, Ashe says sincerely, “I appreciate the gesture.”

Fran tips her head. “Protects us both from stretched ears. The _Strahl_ is popular enough.”

“Do I come up in conversation often, Fran?” Ashe ask rhetorically, barley containing a smile at how silly that idea is. Deciding there’s no harm in just bit of fun of her own, Fran makes a show of avoiding looking at her.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Ashe’s smile falls faster than a stalled ship.

“Do I?” she asks, stunned but eager. Fran only shrugs - with both shoulders - and Ashe hurries to get in front of her. Hands on her hips, she blinks up at Fran, head tilted somehow accusingly.

“Well? _Do I_?”

“Welcome, Your Majesty!”

Ashe turns quickly about, the Healer at the held open door smiling politely at her. "We had received notice of your visit?"

"O-oh, yes..."

Fran casually lifts her hand, hiding her lips as she finds a tapestry interesting. Humes just barely beat out Moogles for too easy to tease. Almost impressive, if one should be impressed by such a thing.

“...be along,” Ashe finishes. Fran glances at them. Ashe had gone to the door to speak with them.

Through the open doorway, passed what the Healer’s body is blocking, Fran can see a room of frill and lace. A pale colored bestiary of stuffed animals spilling over a bench built in to a bay window, wide ribbons looped between the posts of a canopy bed. Beneath a fluffy comforter, the shape of a small body beneath it, yet… they are… misshapen.

No longer whole.

Fran isn’t one for gratuitous violence. Yet, as she watches a small hand pat around at what should be there and isn’t, she ruefully believes she let Bilvy off easy with a simple goring.

Ashe sighs quietly, returning to Fran. She notes that Ashe is absently tapping at her bandages. There is a faint blotch showing beneath the gauze. The wounds are weeping again. The pads of Ashe’s fingers press at it almost idly, as if she doesn’t know she’s gently scratching at.

Fran nods at the wound. “Have them look at that, as well.”

She blinks, her hand jerking back in realization.

“Oh,” she breathes, surprised. “I will.” Fran doubts it. “I will conclude my visit here, then we will see to these Wytch Hunters.”

Fran’s stare, having lingered on Ashe’s wound, jerks up to her face. Her small smile melts quickly, giving Fran a worried look.

_At the bottom of a valley’s well._

“Fran…?”

_Brisk, always in shadow._

“What is it?”

_A manse the green took back._

“It was poor vagary, I know.”

Fran lifts her hand quickly, pointing at Ashe’s face, who jumps slightly at the sudden movement.

“Has the Margrace Cortege made off yet?” she asks, serious.

Ashe gives a shallow shake of her head. “No... Air travel is restricted still. The _Strahl_ and _Beoulve_ are the only private ships with permission to leave. Why -”

“Do _not_ let yourself be Queen-napped in the time I am gone speaking to them.” Ashe’s eyes nearly cross as Fran’s nail comes to tap her nose.

“I have an idea for those Birds to search on.”

**###**

Penelo hums.

It’s more gentle than trying to clear her throat but still gets at the itch in there. Kytes bounces around her at the post office, being adorable while also getting on her nerves. The clerk's as well; she snorts a 'hurumph' as she lumbers around behind the counter.

“Would you cool it?” she asks, not looking up from her writing. “The less you distract me, the sooner I’ll be done!”

He flaps his sleeves around his arms in circles.

“The sooner we get Tomaj and Filo, the sooner we can go on… _our adventure_ ,” his voice dropping to a loud and useless whisper.

“You just want to sit next to Ashe,” she accuses, pointing her pen at him.

He goes pink to his eyebrows.

“W-what’s wrong with that!”

Penelo shakes her head, smiling. All she had hoped to do was send out a quick little note to Migelo to let him know they’re all okay, and not to get anything perishable for her birthday because she’s _definitely_ not gonna be back in Rabanastre in two days.

Kytes swings his arms again, the too-big sleeves flopping against her arm. She barely lifts her pen to keep from sending ink everywhere, and she glares at him.

“You’re supposed to be the good one!” she rasps. “I can’t yell right now, this is the worst time to get on my nerves.”

“I think that makes it the best time to get on your nerves!” he grins, scrubbing at his nose with a balled up sleeve. Penelo rolls her eyes, going back to her note. Vaan’s influence is too strong, geez.

Everything looks good. She doesn’t think she left anything important out… She sets the pen down, wet side up, before raking her hair back. It pulls on the loose lace of her halter. She changed into something with a high collar after breakfast to hide the wrappings since people kept staring. The apricot top comes down to the dip of her ribcage, a matching wide floral lace hanging overtop and down to her navel. It’s really pretty (and a gift from Ashe!), but it’s a pain to leave her hair down while wearing it.

Penelo unwinds a ribbon from around her wrist, letting it fall to her lap before gathering her hair back. Her long shorts are almost a staple of her attire now; navy, belled, embroidered, laced up her thighs and sitting low on her hips, they’re so comfy!

With one leg underneath her as she sits at a writing bench, she starts twirling her hair and piling it on top of her head. She winces when she tilts her head forward. Man, her neck is still so sore.

“Do you need help?” Kytes asks worriedly, quick to pop up at her side. She smiles and shakes her head carefully.

“Nope!” and the P pops. Holding her hair on the crown of her head, she grabs the red ribbon. “We’ll get going in just a sec, okay?”

“Do you want me to go ahead and see if they're back yet?” he offers, twisting his sleeves worriedly. “Then you don’t hafta rush?”

Lumpy, errant bun tied up, Penelo hesitates.

“...No,” she finally answers. She doesn’t know why, but the idea gives her a bad feeling. After all, Filo never caught up with them last night, and Tomaj hasn’t met back up with her after he left to get Filo. It could be dinner soon. Something about splitting up makes her nervous…

It’s probably nothing.

She's such a worrier.

But...

“I’m no Ashe,” she concedes with theatrical woe, and a big sigh. “But will you stay with me, anyway?”

The clerk snorts, but Kytes gets caught up in it. His mouth makes a big ‘O’ shape, shocked. “Of course!” he insists, hands flat on the bench. “Leave it to me!”

She grins at him before he hops back and returns to looking around the lobby. Incidentally, her eyes stop on the postcard wall as Kytes passes it. A lovely painting of the mines catches her eye. Purple rock against an orange sky. It reminds her of the day she met Larsa...

“...Excuse me,” she asks the clerk, dragging her stare away from the picture. “Could I send a postcard, too?”

The clerk gives a friendly snort.

“ _Haa_ , but you can, of course,” the Seeq says. “The cards each will have their own prices, you see, but the fee is flat at seventy-five gil, _svasah_. Three-hundred gil for overnight, _wheeze_.”

She thinks on it for a second, but decides there’s probably no harm in it.

Penelo points out the orange and purple card, and Kytes grabs it for her while she counts out three-hundred gil.

**###**

Balthier stretches in the pilot seat.

Ondore pushing through an executive exemption for the _Strahl_ isn’t entirely ideal to Balthier. Having Her name highlighted and bolded to ensure it’s not missed is more attention that he likes to draw - especially in an official capacity.

A necessary evil, however, that he’ll have to sort out later. It’s not impossible to get out of a No Fly zone (although admittedly a little harder in a _sky city_ ) but if any sort of quick entrance or escape is necessary - and boy, does he expect both at some point - anything less than the _Strahl_ falls to the uncomfortable side of dicey.

For now, he makes a lackadaisical pass down the pre-flight checklist. Normally such is Nono’s job, but the _Strahl_ ’s dedicated mechanic had stayed behind in Balfonheim. Balthier dropped him a missive to keep him from fretting, as word of the explosive clamor has surely reached that far north by now.

They may not have a set departure time, but best to be cleared in advance and just _go_. Vaan is down the way across the aerodome doing the exact same thing for the _Beoulve_.

Speaking of, the _Beoulve_ isn’t half bad. In fact, it’s better than half good. No better than that of the _Strahl_ , obviously, yet Balthier can’t help a twinge of jealousy that Vaan keeps happening upon and losing these great birds (“What happened with the _Galbana_?” “I don’t wanna talk about it, man.”).

Any other pirate would be lucky to even gaze upon such mechanical art, but Vaan tears through them like stationary.

Annoying.

A lone set of footsteps comes up the gangplank. Balthier reclines into his seat, leaning against the armrest closest to the aisle and resting his head against his propped up fist. The footsteps stop right at the entryway for the cockpit.

“Permission to board?”

Balthier has to stop himself from whipping around at Ashe’s voice.

“Highness,” he greets easily. Practiced and casual, he turns just enough to see her standing at the entryway, one hand resting gently against the hull. He lifts his eyebrows before facing back around, pretending to do something important on the dash with his free hand.

“Asking _permission_? Not making to simply swipe Her this time?”

In the evanescent reflection in the glass, he can see her hair bounces with a shake of her head. “I thought I could ask once.”

“Once,” he repeats, grinning, before heaving a theatrical sigh. “I _suppose_ you have permission,” he says, lifting his head and waving her forward lazily.

He watches Ashe's relfection approach, watches her head angled towards the left-middle seat. The seat she always took when they flew together. Right behind his Captain’s chair. She had never noticed, him eyeing her in the glass back then. She had been too preoccupied pondering her fate and all the mysteries of the universe, looking for the answers in whatever she held between her hands: her wedding bands, the Dawn Shard, Sword of Kings.

She takes the seat beside his, careful not touch any of Fran’s carefully set navigation dash.

“Well, I am glad,” she says. “I’ve no more rings to barter.”

To illustrate her point, her hands hover over her lap, the backs of them tilted towards Balthier with fingers splayed.

Time away from battle has been good to much of her, her hands being no different. A natural slim, instead of underfed thin. More balm and less swordplay has reduced the scars and calluses to faint lines. Her nails aren’t much longer than he remembers, but sculpted and level, not brittle and uneven.

There’s a fragile pause he breaks gently. “Ah, look at that,” he considers softly. There’s no longer even a tan line from the bands. How long has it been since she parted with them? With a muted levity, he says, “Never take jewelry into a bath.”

Ashe retracts her hands with a pressed-lip smile. She shifts so as to sit sideways in the seat, her ankles set together in the aisle, arms draped across the armrest. The absence of the rings, that catalyst of their adventure together, fills the space between them.

“Rasler’s sarcofogas,” she corrects him honestly. “It is better to let what was good of our time together rest in peace.”

He tips his head in acknowledgement. A worldly, mature concept that truly showcases how far she’s come from the Stillshrine. It’s something he doesn’t know what to do with. Balthier now very much regrets having already gone through precheck. He decides to start over, too much needing something to distract himself with.

“Where’s Fran?” he asks, the moment disquiet for him, despite how tranquilly Ashe watches him work.

She shrugs out of the corner of his eye. “She had some kind of epiphany and will find us later,” she tells him. Balthier glances at her, skeptical.

“She left you alone?” He does recall only one set of footsteps coming up the blank, but he thought perhaps Fran was just checking in on Vaan, or otherwise in the aerodome.

“Mm.” Ashe puts her chin in her hands. “She wants Al-Cid to research something before we leave.”

Balthier gives up miming through the list and gives her a critical look.

“I have no idea,” she says before he can ask. “She cautioned me not to let myself be taken, and left to see to...whatever she had thought of.”

Huh. He wonders what in the world may have prompted that. As Ashe called it, it would have to be nothing short of an epiphany. Well, let her catch up soon so he can hear all about it.

Then, Ashe pulls him out of his thoughts, blurting out, “I never put it back on.”

A sudden but not rushed admission, Balthier gives her his attention again.

“After you returned his ring to me,” she explains softly. “I just couldn’t... It did not seem…” She sighs heavily, frustrated with her lack of words. Her stare is cast down, lashes so low he nearly can’t see her eyes.

Ashe holds her hands then, much as she did in the past.

“Atop the _Bahamut_ , I testified that my want was to be only myself, and to be free. I was _not_ myself when I bared that ring. Certainly, I was not free.”

She meets his eyes then. Gaze intense, storm clouds no less powerful after the rain. “It was more than Rasler. The ring carried with it all my loss and anger, counting it all on one finger. It was each death, every indignity, a country’s worth of suffering and pain. If I truly believe in what I professed before the Sun Cryst, if I _truly_ wanted to lead Dalmasca unreliant on the past and crutches, I could not wear it again.

“I…” Her expression eases, a smile shy at the corners of her mouth. “ _I cut my ties to the past_.”

He’s surprised into a chuckle. She may have joined the race late, yet Balthier expects she beat the rest of them to the goal.

“Color me impressed.” He tilts his head, considering, playing along for the sake of her mood. “A noble thing to do for your kingdom, but I’d rather hoped you do it for yourself.”

She shakes her head, smiling. “I cannot think of the last thing I did only for myself. But, I am in there.”

“Baby steps, I suppose,” he sighs with faux forlorn.

She squints at him, a mock glare, and they settle into an easy silence. Balthier returns to fiddling with the _Strahl_ ’s controls, making sure in his effort to appear to be doing something he did not accidentally do something. Ashe watches his work.

“I’m sorry,” she offers simply, obviously not trying to interrupt him. “About earlier.”

Balthier shakes his head. “Don’t be. I’m rather grateful for it.”

“Oh?”

She knows him well enough to be suspicious, but he knows _her_ well enough to see she’s curious.

“Certainly,” he tells her like it’s the most obvious thing on the globe, and she mutters ‘oh no’ at his smug grin. “What self-respecting Leading Man would dare to go about without some kind of internal, emotional struggle?"

She rolls her eyes.

“It builds character.”

“Stop,” is what she says, but she laughs at him, while the radio hail sounds. He lifts his eyebrows at her before reading the _Beoulve_ ’s frequency. Only mildly annoyed at the interruption, Balthier easily snatches up the comm mic from the dash panel.

“Yes, Vaan,” Balthier drawls, reclining back in his chair.

_“Sorry to interrupt your date -”_

Ashe tuts, Balthier waving off Vaan’s disembodied voice.

_“ - but one of Al-Cid’s secretaries just showed up.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates for May because April got missed due to project things! Which may not be a good thing, depending on how you look at stuff orz  
> No real easter egg this chapter, just a handful of TA2 nods: Penelo's attire, the post office.  
> See you (hopefully) soon!


	11. inflammation o3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **calor:**  
>  **noun:** heat; increased blood flow. one of the cardinal signs of inflammation

**INFLAMMATION  
3/5**

 

Vaan whistles low.

These are the coordinates Al-Cid gave them, but… who could tell?

The _Beoulve_ is parked safely camouflaged against a knoll at the top of the valley. ‘Valley.’ It’s mostly a grass covered chasm. Steep cliff faces on either side of them cast constant shadows across the moss-caked rocks and small petal flowers stubbornly growing up between the gravel. A strip of sunlight cuts down the middle, and Vaan holds a hand above his eyes to look around.

Maybe a thousand years ago water cut through here. Some underground river that eventually erode the ceiling away enough to collapse, exposing and drying out the channel. The littler rocks making up the floor bed have that ‘river bottom’ look to them. His popped collar flaps in the wind whistling through the chasm, over slabs of jagged rock. Leaves flutter on their stems and vines. 

“I don’t see a house,” he announces. 

“As is the intent.”

Vaan, standing on one of those split boulders, looks down at Fran. She’s standing just beyond the line of light drawn along the canyon floor, hand on her hip and staring further into the dark shadows. 

He squints.

“There?”

“Through there,” she corrects.

Hopping off the boulder to join her, Vaan asks, “Is it like that _Vision Dust_ stuff for Eruyt?”

“No need,” she says, turning to watch his approach. “Illusions are unnecessary when reality will do.”

He rolls his lips, giving her a hard look.

“I don’t know what that means, Fran.”

“You will. Come.”

Fran nods back to where she had been looking, a smooth gesture. With a shrug, he follows her. 

Once out of the sunlight, Vaan’s eyes adjust in a couple of blinks. Unlike the Zertinan Caverns, lit up despite being underground by wide entrances and fissures broken through to the surface, the cave mouth Fran had seen is almost pitch black. But… it’s not… empty…?

Vaan reaches for the satchel high on his hip. Underneath his cammarband, he wears a belt with the strap long, so the squared leather pouch can be easily reached at the bottom of the wrap. He plucks out a fresh sunstone.

The light shows what exactly is inside the entrance. 

“ _Oh_.”

It’s stuffed full of all manner of plants. Wide, heavy leaves, edges curled at the ends of fat stems, shoving passed one another in a useless attempt to reach sunlight. Green ropes of vines are tangled between, blue and yellow flower buds dotted up along them. Just a mess of vegetation being spit up by the cave mouth. 

“That,” and he points to the calamity of jungle wall, his voice getting higher, “ _is real_?”

Fran trails her nails down a portion of greenery, the long leaves of a fern-like plant giving under her gentle pressure, bouncing back into place as her hand passes. 

They’re to the far east of Bancour, the outskirts of Ozmone. He has an idea of why it’s like this, but Vaan asks anyway, “How’re plants growing without sunlight?”

Despite how dense it looks, it parts easily for Fran as she steps into it. After taking a moment to scratch the back of his neck, he steps towards the wall of leaves and vines. Pressing his palms together, Vaan stabs his hands into the vegetation, pulling them apart to create an opening for himself.

Vaan ‘yech’s as he passes into the plants. The temperature difference is immediate, a firm wall of humidity behind the cave entrance. The air is _muggy_ with boscage rot. The strong, warm, moist smell of just _green_ is a lot to take, but he still breathes through his nose after feeling the moisture on his teeth and tasting it on his tongue. 

He’s thankful he thought to tie his hair back before they left the ship. He’s in dire need of a cut, and this has convinced him it can’t be put off anymore. 

The light from the sunstone bounces around as they transverse the uneven, soft ground, and he seriously hopes none of the beams of light catch some beast’s eyes. Not only would that take years off his life, it could take all the years off: this is a tight place to try drawing one of his swords from his back.

“Much of Golmore’s bed is uninhabitable,” Fran says, and Vaan works to keep up with her; after only steps in, her voice almost disappearing. The jungle is mostly transversed up by the canopy with a series of suspended bridges. Even Eruyt Village was built _up_ the trees. 

The further south one goes in the jungle, the more belligerent and grotesque the fauna becomes, even up top. That is, of course, due to the Mist spilling out of the Feywood, transforming the lives around it.

“And - gah!” Vaan grunts, yanking his boot from thick grass wrapped around it. “That same thing is happening with the plants?”

“Aye,” Fran calls back to him. The vegetation is ever drunk on the Mist, stumbling about as it grows. Too heavy to reach for the canopy, it lumbers out across the jungle floor, bloated.

Gross. That definitely explains why everything they push passed is so _meaty_. It’s all gakked out on Mist, probably getting wilder and more deformed every year its exposed to it. On the upside, ‘uninhabitable’ applies to just about anything that isn’t a rock, so nothing too horrific should be stomping around down here.

Should.

As Vaan does with most things, out of sight out of mind. He distracts himself with questions about what he _wants_ to find. 

“So why’d somebody try to build a house down here, then?”

“Ignorance,” she states plain. Yeah. Someone has to be the first to find out something sucks. But then…

“Why’d they keep building?”

“Arrogance.”

Vaan shakes off leafy fringe from his hand, “Do you have an answer for everything, or were you there -?” his question dropping off fast when he looks up to Fran’s Fran-y scowl. His lips purse and frown under her critical stare. 

“ _No_ ,” she icily answers. “It was decrepit even by the time I found it.”

He nods, mute and sheepish.

And that’s all for a little bit.

Vaan is just wondering about what the time of day is - he can’t tell down here - when Fran halts. He looks around them, having to squint to see why they’ve stopped. He hadn’t even realized they’d passed by remains of a stone wall and what’s left of a gate, rusted, crippled beneath the weight of vines growing through it.

The jungle floor is cast in a green glow, the sunlight heavily filtered by leaves, but what little light gets through refracting off traces of Mist and water in the air; his senses are punished by the smell. Overly-fresh and damp. The front lawn could not be less inviting. 

‘Decrepit’ would be putting it kindly.

Carefully, and Fran the more graceful of the two, they stumble towards a dark and rotted mansion. The ground is caked in a soft moss but they only sink so far, so he thinks there’s some stone path a couple of inches beneath it. It catches on the ridges of his boots and the spikes of her heels, the sound of sticky tearing right behind each step they take.

“I hate this,” Vaan announces, his whisper carried through the light Mist. Fran’s only response is for her nose to scrunch slightly. Man, if it’s bad for him, what’s it like for her? “Are you gonna be okay?”

Fran keeps her eyes on the looming nightmare of a house.

“I will behave myself,” she tells him.

They stop at the bottom of the porch. Something that must have been grand and sprawled is now pocked and bent, the balcony to their left having collapsed into the wrapped walkway. Waiting and uncaring, the double front doors are open; broken out at the middle, jagged and splintered wood jut out at the top and bottom of the frame like gnarly teeth. It’s as old as the more shallow Hells, though, and it would probably crumble if Vaan sneezes too close to it. It’s still scary to look at.

Actually, in mind with time-softened wood, he looks down at the stairs. “Will any of this hold us?”

Either to answer him or get things on with, Fran just starts up the small stack of stairs. He flinches at the creaking, the slight bow of the stairs beneath her weight sending a shudder up the frame of the house. He’s heard of houses groaning, but that was too much.

The underside of the awning was probably beautiful and ornate in its prime. Now, the designs are lumpy in decomp, and he’s trying not to see faces in the swirls.

“This seems very haunted. What are we doing here again?” he asks, watching his feet as he cautiously follows her. It sounds like something Balthier would say, but the delivery is all wrong. Vaan is obviously unsettled. Balthier would at least try to mask his unease. 

Creaking along to the broken doors, Fran seems unconcerned. “A pirate with such pause?”

“Hey,” he complains softly. No one wants to be haunted. 

Ashe makes it look like a real bad time.

Once the both of them have stepped carefully between the toothy doors, Vaan lifts the sunstone higher to get a look around. By the size of it, this room was probably a functioning foyer. The remains of sitting furniture with lop-sized legs, eaten by time and moisture, face each other. The suggestion of fabric on the cushions is threadbare and worn. 

Moss, but less of it. Not much wind down here to carry wet air around. 

He sweeps his arm and the stone around. To the left is an opening to whatever the balcony crushed; straight ahead is both a dark hallway as well as a dark set of stairs. He is excited about neither, rubbing a finger under his nose. It’s started to run, a natural defense to plug up and block out the smell of dead wood. 

He whines her name. Finally she answers him. 

“I have seen the crest before.” She makes no move to touch, but Vaan’s eyes drop to the wide disc that’s resting to the right of her rabbit’s tail. Bilvy’s medallion. “I think, here.”

With a blink, Vaan squints at her, confused. “What are we looking for?” he asks, genuine, gesturing with his free hand around them. “Anything useful would be sludge by now.”

Books and documentation need cool, dry places to survive. It’s why most records rooms he’s ever been in are underground or windowless. The faintest moisture can destroy stacks of papers, it’s not like a library will have survived in his environment. 

She glances over her shoulder at him. Eyebrows arched, she’s impressed. 

“Such is not the type of clue we seek. It’s good you know that, though.”

He sticks his tongue out and regrets it, the taste of _stale green_ clinging to it. Smacking his mouth to try to get the taste out, he asks, “So what are we doing again?”

Her lips twitch up, amused. “We need only find the symbol.” 

She doesn’t elaborate. Vaan’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Fine, keep your secrets,” he grumbles.  Tilting the stone so it illuminates the hall and a bit of the stairs, he sighs and asks, “So are we going up or going back there? Because I don’t wanna go up.”

With a smooth sway of her weight, she pushes off the ratty throw - passing the stairs. 

Yes! 

Sort of.

They still have to the _back there_.

With a gulp, Vaan follows her, holding the sunstone up to light her way.

**###**

Balthier grins to himself.

As well as tossing suggestive looks to his passenger. Ashe leans away from the aisle, watching him with wry caution. A vast improvement over her sulking earlier. 

Something had happened to the unaccounted crew members of the _Beoulve_. With the hint of a Landisian Rev, a fragile Kytes and recovering Penelo make for the only Landisian authority they have access to - Judge Magister Gabranth. Traveling as a pair, they decided on commercial flights to stay surrounded and in the public. 

Their only other clue is the crest Fran tore off said Landisian Rev; his partner took Vaan on his ship to hopefully learn more about it. He trusts he’ll hear more later, but all Fran really told Balthier about her plan is that if she is correct, this convoluted knot may yet be undone at their pull. He’s always taking pride and fun in being coy and mysterious, but Fran’s the veteran there. 

And what of the Leading Man and the Queen? The _Strahl_ being the obvious, _better_ ship, it was decided to keep Ashe on it as a… well, _a moving target_ , though he’s suddenly less of a fan of the phrase.

Well. That’s not entirely true. Ashe _did_ have the option of staying with either the Marquis or Margrace. She chose the _Strahl_. By extension, he decided with a nod to himself at that little meeting, she chose Balthier. 

Hasn’t exactly been a pleasure cruise. She’s sulked and scowled about being ‘left out’ since before takeoff (she had tried to accompany Fran, though Vaan was chosen in her place), but after his pointed look at her bandages, she quieted down. She spent most of the flight watching the ground pass by below in silence; the blues of Naldoan growing more shallow towards the coast. She’s stopped asking where they’re going, annoyed and maybe a bit worried about that predatory grin.

It will be worth it. As for right this very moment, Balthier carefully hovers the _Strahl_ above the Phon Straits, her nose pointed _just so_ at the purple crags of Mosphoran. Of course, he won’t know for certain for a few minutes more, but he’s confident he’s gotten the angle right. The levels and compass read the same, but (unfortunately like Cid) Balthier will never trust instruments over his own eyes. 

“It’ll be dark soon,” Ashe says. She’s still keeping a stubborn distance, but her neck is craned in a failed attempt to slyly see what he’s trying to do.

He gives her an exaggerated frown. “Hardly,” he admonishes her. “Sun’s not even set yet.”

“Yes,” she tuts, “but it is about to. _Then_ , it is dark.”

“Stop getting ahead of yourself.”

“What happens if -”

“Whatever happens,” this time, his tone flat, “I imagine we will find out then.” 

Her scoff is of taken offense. Ashe crosses her arms, looking away to glare out at the horizon. His stare lingers for a moment more before he returns his attention to the view with a shake of his head. 

Their side of the mighty range is plunged further into shadows as the sun continues to dip. From up here, the floatweed dangling off the overhangs and rock spires are beginning to shine, hinting at his master plan. Almost the right moment - 

His head tilts in sudden realization. Oh no. He looks around the cockpit, realizing his side is just a bit more yellow. Balthier can’t stop himself from a frustrated groan, wondering if he has time to fix this. _Oh no_.

Ashe eyes him. “What is it?”

He ignores her at first, looking at all the readouts across the control dash, attempting some quick mental maths in hopes of being able to correct the _Strahl_ ’s angle. 

“Well?”

With a defeated, annoyed growl, he sits heavily back in his seat, holding his chin. The degrees are too few to calculate. He would have had to have parked the _Strahl_ , put himself in the navigation seat to check the angle, then get back in the pilot’s chair for any corrections. There isn’t enough time. 

“Are you listening?”

Blast it all! His hand slides up to cover his eyes, his fingers coming together to pinch the bridge of his nose. How did he let _that_ get passed him? Of all the - He opens his eyes to see the sun is no longer round in the sky, the peaks poking into it.

The sun is beginning to crest the ridge…!

“ _Balthier_ -” 

“Come here.”

Her mouth snaps shut. “...Where?” she asks, glancing around, finding nowhere to go. As her eyes fall back to him, she sees he has sat himself as far back into his chair as he can, legs set apart as the armrests allow. Her eyes widen.

“Absolutely not.” She looks at him like a moogle pom has sprouted out the top of his head. “I’m galled you would suggest it, pirate!”

“You’ll get over it.” When she still doesn’t move, he sighs, managing to give her a pleading glare. 

“I did not bring us out here on a _lark_. I meant to show you something, but I failed to account for the fact you’d have a different vantage point. I can’t fix it right now. So just -” and he gestures to the open space at the front of his chair. Ashe hesitantly places her hands on her own armrests, having slid to the edge of her seat, but still hasn’t gotten up. “Would you please, Ashe?”

He missed the look on her face as he says her name, checking on how much time they have, but when he turns his head back to her, she’s standing in the aisle. Relieved, Balthier lifts his hands up so she can see them, and she carefully slides past his knee before taking a dainty seat at the shore of his chair.

She’s making herself as small as possible, tensing as his hand reaches past her to tap a screen. “Relax,” he tells her easily before reclining back. His left arm dangling off the side of its armrest, he leans against the right, into the aisle. He rests the side of his head against a propped fist so he can watch as well.

“Enjoy the show.”

She gives him a suspicious pout over her shoulder but faces back around. 

Just in time.

The sun has plunged far enough behind the Mosphoran Mountains so that it is not so bright the edges can’t be seen. Ashe gasps. Her hands unwind, grasping the lips of the armrests as she leans forward. His left arm comes up, gently taking her elbow to pull her back. “It has to be the right spot,” he tells her softly.

Her hair moves, a subtle bounce with her silent nod. She says nothing about his hand, so he leaves it there.

The sunset traces the jagged sierra in a sharp line. The yellow-orange light scatters as it passes through and over the drenched peaks. Flickering, glittering, a constant shimmer. The sopping floatweed and thin snowcaps are transformed, like a burst of smoldering golden coals. They both squint against the halcyon light, something benevolent from this distance would be fierce any closer. A radiance dancing like fire, and only from a very specific angle. No one’s around. It’s only for them. They sit like that, in companionable silence, captivated by the rigid mountain tops’ sudden animation. The cockpit begins to heat from taking on so much direct sunlight, but it doesn’t matter much. They just watch, her arm occasionally grazed by the pad of his thumb.

As the final rays die as the sun falls low enough, the simmering light quiets and darkens. Balthier watches Ashe’s shoulder blades beneath her skin as she sighs. Balthier holds his breath. 

She turns in their shared seat, the outside of her leg pressing against the inside of his. Her hands gingerly hold the lip of the aisle armrest, carefully not too far from his propped arm. The sun is below the mountainside horizon now, but a soft orange halo outlines her hair and bare shoulders; it is asking so much of himself not to reach out to touch her face, her hair, her neck. 

“Thank you for this, Balthier.” 

Her smile is so peaceful, genuine and relaxed. It seems the show was a success. It might be the leftover warmth of the sunset but her pallor is healthy, cheeks and lips rosy, though Balthier expects it’s something else.

The same something else he can feel spreading down his chest.

Her focus falls to his lips, dallying for a moment before meeting his eyes again. It is a deliberate gesture, she _wants_ to be caught. It’s all the invitation he needs to give into his urges. 

Balthier lifts his head from his fist, reaching for her with his other hand. Her gasp is near inaudible, leaning into his reach, lips parted in anticipation. Not that he’s ever gone for a kiss he wasn’t sure was wanted, but having Ashe so receptive is a relief he hadn’t realized he’d feel. Something stronger than butterflies filling his stomach as he draws her in while leaning forward, their eyes closing. 

Her hands slide up his forearm on the rest, squeezing him as their lips meet. They stay that way, lingering, pressed together; he breathes her in before pulling back, making sure he doesn’t go far. Her sigh follows him and he smirks. Ashe’s eyes are still closed when he opens his. 

“Well,” he murmurs, her eyes fluttering, glazed like she’s coming out a trance, “Look at that.”

She gives a confused “Mm?” and begins to turn her head towards the aisle, as if there is something she actually needs to see. With a grin, he lightly massages the back of her neck. 

Amused, he teases her. “The Queen did something she wanted, and the sky didn’t fall after all.”

He barely has time to register the shift of her expression, the unfocused gleam in her eyes taking on a heated luster as Ashe abruptly impels the flats of her palms against his chest. She shoves him into the well of his seat with all her weight she can muster from this angle, Balthier letting out a small grunt as his back hits. 

“Sorry,” she mutters, the apology almost entirely lost between their mouths. He gives a hum of admonishment from the back of his throat, entirely unopposed to her advancement. Taking her by the willow basket of her ribs, he pulls her further up his body to spare their necks the awkward angle. 

She gasps as he lifts her. He’s plenty used to her indignant scoffs and sharp in-takes, but this is a new sound, new opportunity, one he gladly takes; he follows her breath, deepening the kiss with almost no coaxing required as she opens her mouth for him. Their first kiss moments before had been deliberate but chaste, just a touch too long to be casual yet too light for anything stronger. Now he cups her shoulder blades, fingers pressed into the yield of her skin (careful of the bandages), drinking her mouth. 

Balthier can recall the beginnings of her campaign, how she was unlike any princess he’d ever heard of, but maybe he just put too much stock in stories. How she roped him into her cause. Ashe appealed to his humanity, his pride, and his dignity. Eventually, she landed on his greed, which worked.

She hadn’t tried to charm him into staying, likely because it never occurred to her that such an approach might work. He’d been insulted at first, only to come to suspect that Ashe’s assuming the likes of such as a failed tactic is more to do with her ability to charm, or lack thereof, rather than a will to charm him. 

There’d been days of their months-long traveling that Balthier found himself bored. Even if it was a war (and there was a Vaan and Penelo to trick and laugh at), the long walks were certainly never short of the mundane. Flirting with her to pass the time had been safe and largely harmless - she never flirted back. Though to be honest, he can’t think of anything he would have done if she _had_ flirted back.

It wasn’t going to be the best idea, he’d felt at the time, to fall in lust with the only Daughter of Raminas. Then he _did_ , albeit briefly - shooting straight to something more meaningful and even more dangerous. It was all he could do to keep anyone else from realizing it. Besides Fran, of course, and while Balthier has never asked for the sake of his pride, he suspects Basch suspected _him_. Most importantly, _Ashe_ had never been the wiser.

She’d been so steadfast, driven; laser-focused on her cause. The truth of it was Balthier began to feel guilty over the attraction, which he did not appreciate. He could repeat it forever: she’s too concerned with things that haven’t even happened yet at the cost of the moment. And they were _good moments_ , too, what with him being there and all. Not everything had to be morose and dire at all hours of the day, and he had no idea how to convince her of that. As if she _wanted_ to despair.

Now, with her fingers laced through his hair at the crown (he keeps his hair sharp enough to set a watch to, but perhaps he could let it have just a bit of length to give her more to hold), Balthier thinks _he_ was the one being close-minded. Often people judge others for their actions and themselves for their intent, so Balthier makes to judge their intent - in doing so, he can instead wind up deciding how they feel. It was only after being humbled by the events of Giruvegan that he was able to see how much of a disservice he’d been paying her. 

Like assuming she has no forgiveness in her.

However much he’s wronged her must not matter much. Her nails gently scrape his scalp, his affirmation rumbles in his chest. An arm coming around her shoulders, the other sliding down her back, down her waist, lower - he’s fascinated by how much of her fits into his hand - and squeezes the round of her hip, pulling her further onto his lap. Ashe gives a squeak of surprise, something immediately swallowed up by his mouth. 

He’s just now realizing they’ve gone to all this trouble to sit her on him, when at this rate, they should be staggering back to the captain quarters, one of her hands surely leaving red lines down his neck as she drags her nails to his chest, his hand sliding further over to cup her ass -

“ _Ah_!”

\- with a jerk, Ashe yanks herself away from him. At first, he grimaces and sighs, thinking he got a bit ahead of himself ( _Nice job, leading man_ ), but Ashe is clutching at the left of her chest, her bandage. Perplexed, Balthier checks his hand for blood, though he’s certain he was holding her right shoulder...

It is indeed clean. Well, hm. Now very unsure of what he’s done, he mindfully parks his hands on the rests. Ashes hisses in a breath through her teeth.

“That bad?” he asks, trying for some levity with his confusion. He’s still unclear on what he actually did. Is this how Vaan spends his days, apologizing for his unaware transgressions.

Ashe shakes her head, relaxing from her hunched position. He watches her rub at her chest carefully. “It’s not _you_ ,” she tells him, with a mild glare. With a wince, she releases her chest, but her hands halt in the air, unsure of where to place them. He turns his palms-side up, giving them a shallow waggle, a ‘right here’ message. 

There’s a tremble in her fingers as she slides her hands into his, either from the stab of pain or leftover adrenaline from their _session_. Running his thumbs over the backs of her hands, he asks, “Then what is it?”

“The neurotoxin,” and she winces at his raised eyebrows. She then informs him of the healers’ warnings, how it will be some time before she’s completely free of the toxins. The draught has broken it down to something her body can handle, but time will have to see it dissipated further.  Strenuous labors or an elevated pulse can carry remnants to her heart. “Nothing that should be able to kill me,” she adds quickly as he tilts his head in incredulity and concern. 

“Just enough to sting?” he derides. That’s annoying - learning this information _now_. What if something happened before they left Bhujerba? Or anywhere else. “When did you plan on sharing that tidbit?”

“I hadn’t,” she chuffs. 

“Oh, you hadn’t,” Balthier mocks. “Did that plan consider if an attack like that were caused? Or worse?”

“You,” Ashe challenges back, “are the one who insists I not worry about things that haven’t happened yet.”

He tuts and rolls his eyes. “And _you_ wanted to go on safari with Fran in such a condition, hm?”

She scoffs, stubbornly keeps quiet. 

Balthier fixes her with an unimpressed look, but ultimately decides to let it be. Surely stoking at her anger will send her blood boiling. On the flip side, he doesn’t want her sulking spitefully in a different chair. She and her kiss-swollen lips are too far away as is, sitting all her weight down his thighs almost to his knees. 

When he’d flown them out here, he hadn’t had much planned besides the sunset. After the last several minutes, however, all kinds of things have come to mind. And just like that, he’s having to push a pin into all of them. 

With a growing, self-satisfied grin, Balthier leads her back to him. “That _does_ insinuate certain things, you know.” Ashe has enough time to pull away if she wants, but she allows his lead with a wry, interested expression. Without any prompting, she takes his shirt when he lets go of her hands; he slides his arms around her back, holding her close. 

Her lips are a dark pink, all the blood drawn to the surface, a beacon for more affection. He indulges straight on, then at the corner of her mouth, then at her cheekbone. 

“I-Implication?” she asks, breathy and gripping his tunic. He kisses a trail to the hollow of her cheek, her ear, her jaw. Due to the starched gauze wrapped around her neck, he doesn’t get to linger there as much as he’d like.

“ _Insinuation_ ,” he corrects, lips against her skin. At the top of her neck, “Implication works just as well, I think,” then the base, “About that heart rate…” Ashe’s head lulls to the side, exposing as much of her shoulder and collarbone as she can at this close of contact. 

Her pulse thunders beneath his mouth. With a satisfied, triumphant grin, Balthier lifts his head and leans back. The sudden space between them cools, a shallow tremor running down both of their bodies. 

Ashe’s voice has just the slightest pant to it, and this situation could not be any more lamentable. “What about my heart rate?” she asks, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Well, maybe a little more lamentable. 

Balthier’s head falls back against the headrest, smirking at her, Shrugging, he tells her, “It is _definitely_ elevated.”

Ashe tuts, releasing her hold on his tunic. His amused face falls into comical shock; the fabric is creased, permanently rumbled, stretched out. He gapes. She lifts her eyebrows innocently.

Strike his prior thoughts from the record. 

 _N_ _ow_ it could not be any more lamentable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LITERAL ELEVENTH HOUR UPDATE. I had to get it out because I can't promise two updates in July. Sorry for the wait and for typos. I read it over a few times but I caught all the ones I think I'm going to on my own. I'm sorry for the lack of action this chapter, it's just a lot of set up. Next one! Next one's got plans. Less of an easter egg, more just stuffed full of lore notes from the XII bestiary.  
> It's my birthday today (July first)! What are you doing? o7


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